Narcissus' Ochroid Patella
by Ruth Piwonka
Summary: New York provides some of the finest food and entertainment. But what if it also provided the most amount of aliens? If you enjoyed Bad Blood, you'll love this episode.
1. Chapter 1

"Narcissus' Ochroid Patella"

Chapter One

Nikki's GR8 Convenient Store, New York City, New York

April 6th, 2000, 1:04 p.m.

"How're your wife and kids doing, Chuck?" Nikki Pappas accepted the chart from a surly and unshaven middle aged truck driver. A Budweiser hat covered most of the hair he lost, and he handed her a pen.

"Not bad. Springtime's finally here," Chuck DiCostanzo announced with relief. "I get sick of driving down these icy streets in a huge ass semi."

"I'll bet. You'll be back next week with a little more Bud Light, right?" She signed the clipboard and gave it back to him. "I ordered about 16 more cases."

"If that's what the computer says, it's what I'm bringing. Say hello to your fiancee for me, will ya? Hey, when're you getting married?"

"June. I can hardly wait," she glowered. "I'm feelin' like shouting "Maybe This Time" down the alleys and all around Times' Square. I know this is kind of unofficial and all, but would you like to come? Bring your family along with you, too."

"It's been a long while since I've been to a wedding--I'd love to. I'll have to ask the Mrs. first. See ya next week, Nikki." DiCostanzo pulled himself back up into the cab of the Budweiser truck and shut the door. He suddenly gripped his stomach and grimaced after starting the engine. "Guess I'd better lay off of those mozzarella sticks," he mumbled.

Down the street from Radio City Music Hall, New York City, New York

April 6th, 2000, 1:12 p.m.

"That Cobb salad really hit the spot. Wish we didn't have to be back by 1:30," a leggy bleach blonde lamented and pulled her coat closer to her neck as she shivered.

"Look at it this way, Judy, by starting at 9, we finish at 9. Where'd you eat today?" Her brunette companion had most of the same facial features and another pair of stunning legs.

"Same place as usual. I'll take you there tomorrow." When her friend frowned, Judy stopped at a newspaper stand and started to look at the headlines. "Old habits die hard, Jackie. You'll like it."

"Speaking of habits, can I bum a smoke from you?" Judy shrugged and handed Jackie her leftover pack. "Oh, god, had I known you were short, I would've asked Renee."

"S'okay. Let me have a pack of your Dromedaries light. Thanks." Judy finished the transaction and lit up from her friend's lighter. "Did you notice how thin Renee's getting? She might have to get taken in soon."

"Yeah. Hope she's not taking that comment that the assistant stage manager made to heart." Jackie stared into Judy's eyes and halted the both of them from walking any further.

"What's the matter?"

"I think there's something in your eyes. You might want to have Gary check that out."

"Ooh, make me yak. Gary screwed up my ankle with that piss poor taping job last month. I almost got fired because of that bastard's stupidity," Judy smirked and suddenly began to teeter back and forth all over the sidewalk.

"Whoa, girl. Take it easy. Maybe you've got food poisoning," Jackie tried to catch hold of her friend's arm but failed.

"I'm fine." The dancer stumbled into off of the sidewalk into the street and kept going across the street. Dozens of cars braked sharply in front of her just in time. Unfortunately as Jackie was distracted with apologies and several pairs of middle fingers in their direction, she did not see the Budweiser semi swerving right towards Judy.

DiCostanzo tried to stop, but he was going too fast and was too huge to not slam into the blonde Rockette. There was a large thud as her body hit the front grille, and the semi hydroplaned across the slick streets, taking a few cars along with it. "Oh shit!" the driver yelled as the truck headed straight for a cement street lamp post. Had Chuck known that these were going to be his last words, he would probably have thought of something better to say.

"Mulder, where are you?" A completely covered Scully in goo shouted with her SIG Sauer drawn as she headed through a pitifully illuminated chamber. She lurched into a wall as she frantically scoured for some sign of life from him. "Mulder?"

"Scully!" His response was muffled, but it was enough to encourage her to keep going forward.

"Keep yelling, Mulder! I'm almost there!" she screamed back but really wondered just how far he was from her right now. He could be a few feet in front of her--he could be a mile away.

"I'm really cold, Scully! Hurry!" All she heard was _I'm really old, Scully._

_Well, you're just pushing forty now, Mulder. Pushing? Okay, scratch that. More like dragging._

"I think I'm almost there, Mulder! Oof--ouch!" She smacked into a wall--okay, perhaps it was not a wall. She discovered that it was a very large door with a latching handle. _Oh my god, he's in a freezer._

Seconds later after Scully wrestled the door open, she sheathed her gun and called his name out again. He felt the rush of warm air flood the room and localized her voice within moments. Unfortunately, his exit was quite a bit more clumsy than anything else. He knew she had opened the door, but as he bolted out of the freezer, he ran right into Scully and bulldozed her onto the ground. "Sorry, Scully. I didn't see you standing there," he apologized on top of her.

"Uhn...it's all right. Geeze, Mulder...it's been a long while since...um...-"

"I always imagined you being sticky like this in my dreams, Scully. I never thought that the day would actually come when-"

"NYPD! Freeze!" a cop screamed and pointed his gun into their faces.

"Don't worry, officer. FBI," Mulder told him confidently. Six more police officers came into view with their guns drawn and stood in defensive positions to cover the first man. "I can show you my ID."

"Get up off of the woman slowly," the same officer ordered him.

"Is there any way we could speed this up?" Scully complained and grunted underneath Mulder. Under different circumstances, she might not have minded his weight. But not now--in front of a squad of police--or drenched in whatever this awfully sticky stuff was.

His hand went into his jogging pants' pocket and held his identification up to the cop's flashlight. When the man was satisfied, Mulder pocketed his badge and assisted Scully to her feet.

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully? Just what in hell happened to you two?" Agent Peyton Ritter of the FBI's New York regional division asked and stepped out from amongst the crowd. The expression Scully gave him could have liquified the Hubbard glacier in ten seconds.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The X-Files' Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 14th, 2000, 8:15 a.m.

Mulder sniffed the air and inhaled the rich scent of a flavored coffee as he trudged off of the elevator. His spirit immediately lifted; this meant that Scully had come early and had forgiven him well enough to make them a good, strong pot of coffee to begin their day. Maybe she'd even be in enough good humor to tolerate him for dinner outside the FBI's regulations. He put on one of his most wicked smiles--one that he knew she either loved or hated seeing.

His pace quickened, and he suddenly could not wait to reach the open door to his office. "Good morning, sunshine. What's the special blend of the morning?" he cooed before setting one foot over the threshold. As soon as he did, Special Agent Chesty Short arose from Mulder's chair. He picked up his coffee mug and set it down next to Mulder's nameplate.

"Hazelnut, Agent Mulder. I would say good morning to you, too, but I'm afraid it's just not meant to be. I found the coffee in a drawer in that desk over there. I assume it's Agent Scully's. I must say that I'm rather surprised that she doesn't have her own nameplate considering all the other charges you've been making to the FBI's account recently."

"I'm sorry. Did I...enter the wrong office?" Mulder made a slight gesture to the name on his door and looked at the auditor perplexedly. Short shook his head and motioned for Mulder to come in. "I don't think there's enough room for three desks here."

"Oh, I assure you, Agent Mulder, I may dabble in and out of the subterranean dimensions of numbers, but they'd never assign me to your natural habitat."

"Then what _are_ you doing here? And where's Scully?"

"Doing the same audit with your superior, Assistant Director Skinner."

"Oh fine, she gets her wrists slapped while I get mine slit," Mulder grumbled inaudibly, filled his grimy mug full of coffee, and sat with his legs stretched across his bureau.

"All right. Let's start with your last case. I understand you just returned from New York City." He filled the chair Scully usually took and rested a leather portfolio on top of his crossed knees. "And please do start from the beginning, Agent Mulder."

"I was thinking about maybe telling the middle and adding a couple of twists first before that," Mulder snorted.

"I will remind you, Agent Mulder, that this expenses audit will be going before a subcommittee shortly in the Senate. As of now, they're asking for reasons why this section should remain open. They do not care for the same flippant and cavalier behavior that you're exhibiting."

"Okay, from the beginning. It was a Monday morning just like any other for me last week, until I got a tip from a reliable source."

The X-Files' Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 7th, 2000, 8:30 a.m.

"Please tell me that you have a good reason for being tardy again, Mulder," Scully rolled her eyes as he approached the doorjamb.

"Uh...did we have a meeting scheduled for this morning, Agent Scully?" he asked innocently and folded the newspaper he had been reading to fit underneath his arm.

"An 8 o'clock summation with AD Skinner. He sent me down here to find you after we waited for twenty-five minutes in his office. _Patiently_, I might add." Her voice bordered on supreme irritation, whilst her fingertips drummed on his desk.

"Well, Agent Scully, I do actually have a good purpose. If you'd care to take a seat and humor me, I'll be more than happy to show you."

"We'll start by sitting in AD Skinner's office--I'm sure he'd be interested as well." Her resolve was firm. Her persistence was driving even him nuts.

"But you communicate so much better with him than I, Agent. I think it'd be best if I showed this to you first, and then you can relay this data to him later."

"How much later?" she sneered.

"It'll just take a few minutes." Mulder smiled meekly, brought out the newspaper, and handed it to her.

"Oh, you're joking!" Scully scoffed disgustedly, slammed the door shut behind them, and locked it. She stretched out the entire paper's body to read the bold headline. "Alien Owned Restaurant Afflicts Terror on New York City Citizens! Where did you get--" she began but then glanced up at the title. "I should've known."

The words _The Magic Bullet Newsletter_ decorated the header of the paper in a Gothic font and slightly underneath it was the phrase "a publication by the Lone Gunmen". Scully tossed the paper carelessly onto the bureau, and Mulder was quick to cover it with his briefcase. "Now just before you draw any conclusions, Agent Scully, might I indulge you in another form of media?"

"You mean one not dreamed up by "The Three Paranoiacs"? This, I've gotta see." She sighed and followed him behind his desk to check on _The New York Times'_ website. Under 'today's headlines' column, he pointed to "Semi Runs Over Rockette" with the mouse and clicked on the link. "I still don't see what the hell's the connection, Mulder."

"Please bear with me, Agent. Would you like to sit down?" Mulder proffered his chair to her but instead she shook her head and crossed her arms. He shrugged and sat while she shadowed him like a queen bee.

"Budweiser truck driver Chuck DiCostanzo, 42 of Brooklyn, lost command of the wheel yesterday near the intersection of 6th Ave. and 50th St. The vehicle hit Judy D'Angelo, 22, of Staten Island at approximately 24 miles per hour. The accident occurred in the afternoon at about 1:23 p.m. Witnesses say that after the truck made contact with the victim, it spun out of control, crashed into about four more cars, and ultimately smashed into a cement light signal. The only casualties were DiConstanzo and D'Angelo. At this time, the causes of death are certain, but police authorities suspect that this accident was not a result of inadvertent actions on either person's behalf. I don't get it, Mulder," Scully read aloud.

"It means that they think that no one's at fault," he said patronizingly.

"I _know_ that! I meant that I don't understand what these two articles have to do with one another," she miffed and shoved his attache case away from _The Magic Bullet Newsletter._

"Well, if you read on further in _The Magic Bullet_, you'll see that they attribute _that_ accident," he motioned to the screen and back to the newspaper, "with_ this_ being the common denominator."

"That's a pretty big leap of logic, Mulder. Even for _you_, I might add."

"Well, that's why I think we should go to New York. And you could be right, Agent Scully. But that's what we're here to do, right? Investigate the possibilities?"

"At 8:00 a.m. this morning, we're here to discuss the conclusions of our last investigation with our superior, Mulder. This alien nonsense will have to wait for another day."

"Aren't you the least bit teensie weensie curious as to how they _really_ died?"

"I'm sure the question will be eating me all morning in Skinner's office. As of now, we are officially forty-five minutes late, and that will be our only destination."

Assistant Director Walter Skinner's Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 14th, 2000, 8:25 a.m.

"Agent Scully?" Skinner's assistant Kim snapped Scully to attention from his outer office couch, and she sprang up from it like a cricket on a hot skillet. "He'll see you now." Kim opened the door for her, and Scully warily trudged into the inner office.

"Morning, Agent," Skinner greeted her sincerely from his chair and stood briefly until she sat.

"Good morning, sir," Scully returned humbly. She kept the posture of a confident FBI agent, but her eyes rarely traveled to meet his at first.

"I just wanted to let you know that this is not a performance evaluation, Agent, this is an expenses audit. So you can relax on that account. I apologize for my curtness over the phone, but when I received this report from accounting, to the say the least--I was rather...shocked."

"Shocked, sir?"

"According to Bureau regulations, the senior agent amongst two partners carries the FBI credit card. But it's the other partner's responsibility to make sure that it is being used moderately. Does this come as a surprise to you, Scully?"

"No, sir."

"Are you sure? Because I see some rather extravagant purchases being made here. And we are going to go through this list, item by item until I am satisfied that these charges are explained."

"Of course."

"Now I understood Mulder's reason for going to New York...from Mulder's point of view. I'd like to hear an objective perspective for once, so start from the beginning, Agent."

Mulder's Apartment, Alexandria

April 7th, 2000, 8:45 a.m.

"Mulder? Mulder, are you here?" Scully inquired as she let herself into his flat and began to inspect it for any signs of life. She meandered into his kitchen and touched the stove. It was stone cold as well as the coffee sitting in the pot on its hot plate. This was so unlike him to not answer his cell or home phone.

Scully started towards his bedroom and just as she felt under the covers for him, he surprised her from behind in little more than a towel wrapped around his waist. "Jesus, Mulder!" she screamed.

"Morning, beautiful," he smirked and wrinkled his forehead. His hair was soaking wet and unkempt. His chin looked scrubby as well. _He'd better shave before we get back to the office._

"Do you have any idea of how late you are for our meeting with Skinner?"

"We had a meeting with Skinner?"

"Practically an hour ago, yes. I tried calling you on your phones."

"Oh. Sorry. I turned my cell phone off, and I unplugged my home phone last night. I was really tired, and I wanted to be sure that I could get some sleep." He sauntered back into his bathroom and began to roughly towel his hair.

"And did you?"

"Yeah--it was nice. I got eight hours, I think."

"What time did you get to sleep?"

"About eleven thirty. Thanks for coming over, by the way."

"Mulder, it's nearly nine."

"What?" He threw the towel back onto the floor and got out an electric razor.

"It's almost nine o'clock now," she checked her watch and stood in the doorjamb. "Did you set your watch forward one hour before you went to bed last night?"

"Oh, crap. We're not in Missouri anymore, I forgot."

"Did you finish your notes?"

"Notes, what notes?" _Mulder, you are not doing this to me on this morning of all mornings._

"The notes I was supposed to have last night so I could type them up for Skinner this morning," she sighed as he started to shave and eye himself in the mirror. "Well, can I assume that you might have typed them up yourself either on the plane or before you got your proper nine hours of sleep?"

"I started on them, but didn't get too far. I got an email from the Gunmen last night. Wanna see it?" Mulder rushed out of the bathroom with the razor still running in one hand, grabbed the papers from his printer, and shoved them into Scully's stomach. She barely just caught them as he crossed over the bathroom threshold.

"What is this?"

"It's their newspaper. Come on, Scully, you've seen _The Magic Bullet_ before."

"In a much more organized format, yes."

"I guess it must be a draft or something. Go on, read it." He scrambled back into his bedroom and hurried to get a pair of boxers on--but not before dropping his towel in front of Scully. She would have had a very good view if she had not been reading.

"Says here that a Rockette in New York and a truck driver got into a crash because of a restaurant run by two aliens," she read.

"There's more. Go on." Mulder buttoned his shirt and zipped his pants up.

"Many other New York citizens have also been terrorized by these two miscreants. Sources reveal that after his lunch break, a painter lost his balance on a scaffolding and fell five stories to his death. Other customers have complained of dizziness, headaches, and shortness of breath."

"My _Washington Post_ this morning made no mention of _that_ information."

"Mulder..."

"The New York Police Department just hasn't gotten its act together, yet, Scully. They're trying to say that the truck driver had been high and that the Rockette wasn't paying attention to the traffic. And it's up to us to stop the aliens from wreaking any further havoc on that poor city."

"Not to say that I'm in complete disagreement with you, Mulder, but how do we know that they're aliens?"

"Dear Abby, today my partner of seven years has finally acknowledged that aliens do exist. Do I propose to her now or wait until I've got the ring?" He waited for some kind of negative reaction. When she said nothing, he shrugged. "Read on, dear Scully, read on."

"Narcissus' Ochroid Patella is the name of the restaurant--owned by a Drew and Angela Robinson, who look nearly just like celebrated movie stars Richard Gere and Jodie Foster?"

"Yep. What kind of regular people that look like Richard Gere and Jodie Foster would just own a restaurant? They probably modeled themselves to appear like that because being light years away from our planet would limit their collection to certain pictures available of human life. And who is the best depiction of celebrating human life? The rich and most famous, of course." He took out two different ties and slung them across his shoulders separately. "Scully, I need your opinion on something."

"Hmm?"

"The metallic green or the silver one?"

"What on earth are you...--oh." Scully's eyes left the newsletter and made contact with the neckties. "You're wearing a maroon colored shirt, Mulder. Silver. The other tie is cranberry."

"Thanks." Mulder flung the other tie onto his chiffonier and returned to the doorway. "Man, that was cranberry? I don't think I own any shirts that match that color. Guess I must have mixed it up with the group of ties sitting next to it in the store. You know, that makes me so angry."

"What does?"

"45 of American males are colorblind, but yet the department stores continue to stock cranberry and metallic green ties next to one another."

"Maybe they're run by aliens, too," Scully joked. "Come on, Mulder, we're extraordinarily late, and I can already feel the wrath of Skinner."

"Speaking of feeling things, do I meet with your approval, Admiral Scully?" He seized her empty hand and together with his own stroked his left cheek. "You were giving me the 'Mulder, your face is an overgrown jungle' expression."

"I don't ever remember giving you one of those before," she pulled away and gave him the printed sheets back. "But yes, your skin feels nice."

"Good. Can we take your car to work today? My car's just run out of steering fluid, and you know how good I am at parallel parking."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The X-Files' Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 14th, 2000, 8:45 a.m.

"But you eventually _did_ end up on that airplane to New York, I see," Agent Short broke in. "And I see that you have two first class tickets booked here."

"It said 'business class' on the Internet. And there were no other seats available on that flight. Besides, we were doing business, weren't we?" Short gave him an unreadable expression, but Mulder gathered that it represented nothing but dismay and hostility.

Somewhere between Washington, D.C. and New York City

April 7th, 2000, 1:49 p.m.

"Food critics, Mulder? I can't even begin to comprehend the reasoning behind that one," Scully remarked and started to highlight _The Magic Bullet's_ front page story. She looked rather comfortable, Mulder thought. Her attire had changed from the morning typical business suit into a simple button-down, olive green cardigan and a pair of khaki slacks. He had to admit to himself that he loved that sweater for one reason only; the very low neckline. And God help him, a few more buttons were undone more than were necessary.

_Does she do it to drive me crazy or is it an unconscious whim?_

"I think it makes sense. The aliens own a restaurant," Mulder replied to let her know that he was still in the same dimension. "We'll be able to check it out thoroughly from top to bottom."

"Yeah, but you know next to _nothing_ about gourmet food. Wouldn't it have been better to go as FDA agents or USPH representatives considering your background?"

"That's...a...provoking thought, Agent Scully. But I just didn't think that it would have been as exciting to pose as government agents. Remember when I asked you if you could be someone else for a day?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded, her head plunged into her work, "and my answer would still be the same."

"Quite a bit of time has passed. A lot of things have changed since then."

"It was just three years ago, Mulder." Scully glanced up momentarily at him with a furrowed eyebrow and pushed her reading glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. "So who writes all these articles anyway? Is it only the work of our three stooges, or do more people contribute to this rubbish?"

"A handful of others also write for the Gunmen from time to time. Frohike even has a website that lists several methods of control the government utilizes with computers at home and how to prevent them."

"Ah, I see. Helpful hints for hunting down the latest conspiracy in your inbox."

"Why do you think so many people own PC or IBM compatibles? Bill Gates made a deal with the FCC to let him advertise-"

"I'm not interested, Mulder," she barked. "All right--I'm reading here that the proprietors are named Drew and Angela Robinson. A married couple owning a restaurant...there would be definitely be some lovely topics to converse over before bed."

"What else do you surmise from that report?"

"Gee, Mulder...it makes me start to think...if they really _are _aliens, which species would they represent? The Gray Reticulans? The black oil? The bounty hunters that can transmogrify into human forms?"

"Maybe we'll discover a new type from another planet."

"I don't know. This article looks like it's been cut and pasted several times. These so-called witnesses and/or reliable sources are just hearsay from people on the street. I've never read an article with so many 'ifs, buts, perhaps, possibly, or maybes' to corroborate them to factual hardcore statistics."

"Well, the Lone Gunmen don't claim to be scientists, Agent Scully. Might I suggest that we take these various statements one by one and find out if they're true?"

"Oh, they're all true, Mulder. You meant that we're to look for the facts."

"Of course," he nodded humbly.

"I see that the restaurant is named Narcissus' Ochroid Patella."

"They must serve some exotic food then."

"Mulder, what's so exotic about a kneecap?"

"I'm sorry...I don't-"

"The patella is the human kneecap. I'm surprised that Drew and Angela have managed a successful business with such a vapid name like that."

"Excuse me, sir, ma'am...would you guys like something to drink?" a flight attendant asked sweetly with a wanton smile at Mulder. Scully's eyes narrowed as she studied the woman dubiously.

"Two coffees. One black with sugar, the other, no sugar, but with cream," she answered tout de suite.

"Well, I can guess who runs the household," the attendant quipped. Mulder observed the daggers coming from Scully's eyes and handed her the coffee as quickly as he could. Instead of gaping at the flight attendant's derriere as usual, he returned his attention to Scully.

"I remembered our deal, Agent," he told her. "Did that satisfy you?"

"Which one?" She brushed her hair behind her ear and blew on the steaming hot coffee.

"The one where you picked the names for going undercover."

"Oh, yeah."

"Well...have you chosen them yet?"

"Why is it so necessary for you to know right away?" Scully sipped her coffee and continued reading _The Magic Bullet_.

"The Lone Gunmen have agreed to put our names and faces in a couple of well to-do cuisine magazines to help us bolster our reputation as food critics."

"First of all, they're called culinary newsletters, and second of all, why should I have to prove my reputation to anyone?"

"You don't really need to prove your reputation, Agent Scully, it's just to assist the owners to know who we are."

"And that's assuming that they actually read the damn things."

"I think it would be most prudent if-"

"Fine," she cut him off, wrote on an advertisement, and showed it to him.

"Sounds like you enjoyed the plane ride, Agent Mulder. Ah, let's see, what's next on the expense list...hmm..." The auditor's lip quivered and pursed. "A one week lease for a lavish penthouse suite. Explain, Mr. Mulder, why the taxpayer's dollars are going towards a posh New York penthouse suite."

"Well, we're supposed to be food critics, right?"

"That's what I gathered from your narrative so far, yes." He switched the position of his legs and re-adjusted his portfolio as well on his lap.

"Well, taste critics don't live in dinky apartments like messenger bikers do."

"There are plenty of well-to do people that reside in small apartments in New York, Agent Mulder."

"That's not necessarily true with what I was reading in the cuisine magazine."

"I think you mean culinary newsletter." Short gazed down at the list just as Mulder shot him a fierce glare.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner's Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 14th, 2000, 8:55 a.m.

"So you went to New York because Mulder said that two aliens were terrorizing its citizens under the hospices of a restaurant?" Skinner prodded Scully.

"We went because we wanted to be sure that the truck driver and Rockette actually did die from the accident and nothing more."

"I see. We'll get to more of that later. Now about these plane tickets..."

"Yes, I know that they were first class, and I apologize for that, sir. Agent Mulder was most insistent upon catching the first flight out to New York. And the only thing he could find at the last minute were those two seats."

"You are to travel in the economy class, Agent. The federal government cannot support such luxuries."

"I did try to convince him to take a later flight. But you can see where that got me."

"Yes."

"I sometimes liken Agent Mulder's persistence to that of an obstinate bull. If you corner him, he becomes angry. If you prove him incorrect, he'll just go around you or--"

"Become a complete pain in the ass. I know, Scully. Mule-headed is an understatement. Perhaps the new catch twenty-two should be 'Mulder-headed'."

Somewhere between Washington, D.C. and New York City

April 7th, 2000, 1:49 p.m.

"I like having these complimentary beverages, Scully. We should go first class more often," Mulder raised his Jack and coke a little higher to inspect the ratio of alcohol and mixer.

"We really shouldn't be going first class at all, Mulder. Skinner's going to flip."

"Then I'll tell him where I got the big discount--you should have seen the tickets' price _before_."

"Somehow, I don't think that's going to soften the blow," she sipped her water and set it down beside the X-File folder on her tray table.

"Okay, what does he like to drink?"

"Forget about Skinner for now. The important thing is for you to receive your crash course in gourmet food 101. We have," she glanced at her watch, "less than two hours. Maybe you'd better put the drink down."

"What is this, school? It's just one drink, Scully. You know I'm not an alcoholic."

"Fine, it's just that I thought it'd be best for you to be alert."

"Actually, I prefer to be relaxed...and entertained," he muttered the last word, but Scully heard him. She quickly caught where his gaze had been fixed and crossed her arms across her chest. "I know you're just bursting with excitement about this case, Scully, which is why I thought we should be food critics. We need to lighten up our lives a little."

"What about that genie investigation? The ending wasn't _that_ tragic, was it?"

"True, and it gave me a little more insight into the life of the 'enigmatic Dr. Scully,'" he threw up his fingers into quotation marks. That earned him the privilege of watching her eyebrow incline. "I didn't think you were a beer drinker, that's all."

"I'll admit that beer would probably not be my first drink of choice, but I get a hankering for it every now and then."

"You're starting to talk like me. I'm trying to decide if that's a good thing."

"Okay. First, we're going to go over cutlery and flatware. Then if you're good, we'll delve back into that wonderful world of alcohol." She flipped the table back up, handed him her water, and reached for the carry-on bag in front of her seat. After finding the book she desired, Scully restored the bag as well as the tray table, and collected her plastic cup again.

"One more question before we start, Scully."

"Yes?"

"You mentioned a few months ago something about a Sister Spooky."

"I had other teachers at that school, too, you know, Mulder."

"So I gather. But did she leave you with any nun inflicted scars? Because I just wanted to make sure that you weren't going to be pulling a ruler out of that bag anytime soon and be using it freely."

"There are no rulers of any sort inside that bag, Agent Mulder. However, my gun does happen to reside there, and if I catch your eyes wandering _again_ like that, I have no qualms about using it."

"Fair enough, Sister Scully."

"This is a butter knife. I think you can discern for yourself what it's used for--it also can be classified a spreader. This is a salad fork. As you can see, it is quite diminutive in comparison with the luncheon, place, and dinner forks. The smaller the fork, the farther it is placed from the left side of the plate."

"Why is that?"

"Because it looks more aesthetically pleasing."

"Well not at _my _dinner table, it won't be. Ooh. I just got chills when you said that," he shivered.

"This is a teaspoon, not to be confused with the slightly larger soup spoon."

"Is that what they're used for? I kept on forgetting," he gave her a jovial beam.

"I've seen you eat with the wrong spoon before, Mulder. That's why I said that."

"Me? I would never do such a thing." The grimace on her face told him otherwise. "When? Name a time and place that's occurred."

"Three days ago, in St. Louis. You were eating your shrimp gumbo soup with a teaspoon at the airport."

"Mmm...that soup _was_ good. Ever been to New Orleans? I went there once just to work on a case years ago, back when I was with Violent Crimes. The Cajun recipes there are to die for."

"No, can't say that I have. Maybe, one day, I'll go to Mardi Gras."

"Is that a future vacation reserved only for one person?" Her expression remained wistful for a few lingering moments.

"Maybe I'll take my mother." The smile from his face faded, and she snorted subtly through her nose. "Play your cards right with this case, Mulder, and we'll see."

_Vacation with Mulder? Dana Katherine Scully, there happens to be a reason why you need vacation time. And he's sitting right next to you._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York City, New York

April 7th, 2000, 4:06 p.m.

"Well, this is it," Mulder beamed as he unlocked the door and opened it. Scully just about ran into his outstretched arm as he lowered it on the door's frame down to her neck's level.

"What the-"

"We didn't get to do this the last time. And it's gonna happen." She stepped away from his arm and barely had enough time to object as he reached behind her to pick her up off of her feet.

"We're not married, Mulder. We're not even pretending this time. What on earth gave you the..." He stopped dead in his tracks once a few feet inside and took his first real look at the living room.

"It's gorgeous," he murmured and continued to gawk at the cathedral ceiling.

"I think you can put me down now," Scully's voice brought him back to reality. He set her down gently on her feet and rushed outside to pull the suitcases inside. "I'll take it from here, Mulder," she chided him and took her own into a bedroom. Once inside of it, she knew that Skinner was probably going to carve his initials into their asses with an electric razor. The room was breathtaking.

An emperor sized bed with emerald Egyptian cotton sheets and 2 comforters encompassed most of it. She lifted her valise onto the bed--even though it was full sized, the case did not take up even a fourth of the bed. There also was a chest of drawers and a wardrobe that boasted the height of seven feet. Scully ran her fingers over the freshly varnished cherry edges and imagined the piece to be made of teak. Out of curiosity, she opened the doors and very nearly got smacked in the head by the ironing board.

There were two night stands of equal stature on either side of the gargantuan bed. They matched the chest's color, and the thing that really struck her into awe was the reading lamp suspended over a nearby emerald green armchair. _This has to have been made by Tiffany, or is a pretty damn good replica!_

The combination of burgundy, cobalt blue, and aqua blue crystal decorated most of the shade. A gaudy chain weighted by a diamond-shaped crystal of some sorts lay perfectly still--she could already imagine watching it swing back and forth glistening through the light like a prism. The chair itself was nearly wide enough for two, and a hassock as large as her suitcase sat right in front of it. Enough was enough. She wasn't going to torture herself by walking into the bathroom yet. Instead, she calmly strolled back through the flat to Mulder's room.

He was already unloading his luggage into an equally opulent wardrobe. Once he saw her walk inside and mouth hang open to take in his room, he smiled. "Nice place, huh?" he asked casually.

"Mulder, one month of rent for this suite is probably worth my two year lease contract! And that's not to mention the cost of the furniture!"

"We're probably not going to be here that long. More like a week, tops."

"Please tell me this apartment belongs to a friend that's on vacation or business, and we're housesitting."

"Nope. I actually don't know anyone from New York, aside from your friend Special Agent Peyton Ritter." Mulder retrieved his leather toiletries bag and disappeared into his own bathroom. Once he saw the terror on her face, he shook his head bemusedly. "Come on, Scully, you've always persecuted me about the normal spots where we stay. Now that I find somewhere decent, you want to go back to the old flamingo motel off of the interstate with free HBO and A/C."

"No, I don't. It's just that it'd be nice if you could find a medium in between extremely tacky and extremely unaffordable...and it's not for my sake that I'm concerned, by the way."

"Am I ever going to be able to do anything right for you, Scully? Honestly, you've been biting at my heels like some snippy little bitch for the last month. I think I've handled it pretty nicely--considering how shitty you've been making me feel. I don't mind the constructive criticism when it comes to your much needed 'sufficient evidence', but you've been chastising me past that point for way too long."

"What exactly have I said?" Scully was incredulous to this news; through her eyes, this month, she had kept her mouth shut about a lot of unorthodox concatenations. She'd been trying to cut down her verbal reprimands ever since New Years, especially since what happened between the two of them was still fresh in her mind.

"If you want to take the car, I'll meet you down in the office later. I'll take the subway." Mulder fished out the keys from his pocket and tossed them across the bed.

Scully opened her mouth for a rebuttal but was so stunned by his invective that she honestly could not think of one. She collected the keys silently and left the room.

FBI Regional Office, New York, New York

April 7th, 2000, 4:56 p.m.

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. It's good to be working with you again," Agent John Ritter greeted them warmly and clasped their hands firmly as he shook them. "When my SAC called and told me that you were coming back, I just had to come out and see you for myself. You look great, Dana."

_Despite being shot by you, I'd say so, yeah_, Mulder thought.

The smile running across his face was making Mulder sick, and if he could read Scully like he thought he could, she was having the same internal reaction.

"I'd appreciate it if we kept the protocol to last names, Agent Ritter--please. This isn't a social occasion," Scully politely rebuked him and surprised the kibbutz out of Mulder by reaching for his hand. He did not quite know what to make of this significant motion but decided that it was in his best interest to play along. He intertwined their fingers and felt a slight tingle when she closed up their diminutive embrace.

"Of course. Ah, my SAC didn't say much about your case, except for the fact that he had some bodies tagged in the coroner's morgue to be set aside for further study. And I suppose that'd be under your field of expertise, D--Agent Scully. Would you care to see them? I can take you there now." Ritter stepped toward a door and opened it for her.

"Thank you, Agent Ritter, I would. That would be very considerate of you."

"And on the way, if you wouldn't mind briefing me about your case, I'm sure I can offer you as much assistance as needed. The both of you, that is." Mulder let go of her hand and reached into his pocket for a notebook. When she felt him depart from their touch, she turned and gave him an awkward stare.

"Mulder, aren't you coming?" she asked.

"I...I think I'm going to pay a visit to a coffee shop as to warm up the old soup bone here," he made a motion that looked like he was about to pitch a baseball as she continued to gawk.

"You're going undercover as a baseball player?" Ritter was confused.

"I wish. That's something he knows a helluva lot more about than where to get a decent meal..." Scully grumbled crankily as she walked out the door. "Come on, I'll tell you on the way, Ritter."

FBI Regional Office, New York, New York

April 7th, 2000, 5:18 p.m.

"You need somethin', lady?" a white haired man with a Brooklyn accent asked. His reading glasses drooped far from the bridge of his nose as he scooped up a stack of papers and threw them into the wastebasket beside his desk.

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, of the Washington Bureau. I'm supposed to be meeting Special Agent John Ritter, uh, does he have an office?"

"Nope. His desk's right over there," the man motioned her attention five feet away. "I think he might be in with our SAC at the moment."

"Who is he, by the way?"

"Carter Boucheaux. _He_, by the way, _does_ have his own office. You'll find it on the right down the hall just past the coffee machine. This is Agent John Whittaker," Whittaker answered his chirping phone and signaled Scully to come through the gate.

She waited patiently until she heard a period of silence outside Boucheaux's door and then knocked twice. "Come in," Boucheaux's rich tenor voice welcomed her.

"Oh, Dana, how ya doin'?" Ritter turned around and shoved his hand into hers for a very presumptuous shake. She accepted his hand graciously but withdrew it as hastily possible. "Sorry, sir, uh, this is Agent Dana Scully, from Headquarters. Dana, this is SAC Carter Boucheaux."

Boucheaux's finely trimmed blonde hair and seoul-patch accentuated his sapphire eyes. He was, by any woman's eyes, a perfect example of the ultimate feminine dream. He wore a well tailored black suit with a chartreuse colored shirt, and the tie was the exact same shade of his eyes. She found herself staring at him a bit too long as he arose and extended his hand to her. The smile he was giving her was very much like the one she had received two years ago from a certain sheriff in Texas. She had not felt that kind of sudden warmth reach down to her toes in weeks.

"Pleasure's all mine, Agent Scully." Scully was immediately appreciative of the fact that Boucheaux saw the need for proper professional etiquette, even though Ritter had used her first name. That meant that she did not have to prove her equality to him like so many other boys in the club. "I understand you're here to prove the New York City coroner wrong. You are a pathologist, right? I was reading your file just now..."

Scully had begun to frown after his first sentence after his greeting, but then her mood lightened. He was reading her file? Why not Mulder's? Technically, he was the senior agent and head of the X-Files division. Maybe he had already skimmed over Mulder's and decided to read hers instead. _Dana, pull yourself together. Stop thinking about those intoxicating blue eyes and behave._

"Yes, that's true. But we're not here to prove anybody wrong, we just think that there's something that might have been overlooked in this case," she replied diplomatically. "And, perhaps, there might be a chance of the paranormal nature's existence in these deaths."

"We? Who's we?" Boucheaux inquired. "Agent Ritter only mentioned you, Agent Scully."

To that news, she blushed inwardly and pushed a stray strand of auburn hair aside. Just before she could say another word, Mulder strolled inside the office and closed the door behind himself. "Special Agent Fox Mulder. Scully's my partner. That's who _we_ are."

"All right, then. Interesting," Boucheaux commented and gave Ritter a brief but silent rebuke with his eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know that Dana was working with anyone. The last time I partnered with her, she was alone," Ritter remarked.

"From now on, Ritter, please refer to her as Agent Scully, under the FBI's protocol," Boucheaux ordered his underling. "Agent Mulder, was it? That wouldn't be the 'Spooky Mulder' I've heard of, would it?"

Mulder's eyes began to roll, and Scully mouthed his name gently. He then sighed and nodded.

"Well, that puts things into a very different light, now that I know whom I'll be working with. Whatever you need, I'll be happy to supply if I can. I've heard about your reputation, Agent Mulder..."

Scully held her breath and waited for the explosion of laughter.

"You were a legend back at the Academy. And you still are, in my book. So what if you work with the weird stuff? It takes a special kind of person to have the balls to do that. Excuse me, the courage," he flashed another brilliant smile at Scully. "Now, I've lined up DiCostanzo and D'Angelo's bodies into the coroner's cold storage unit for you to examine at your leisure, Agent Scully. Ritter, I'll leave you to the task of escorting them downtown, please."

"Yes, sir," Ritter submissively agreed, and the trio left the office.

"So you didn't remember meeting me?" Mulder immediately got defensive as they passed through the field office's myriad of bureaus. "I'm glad that Scully made enough of an impression on you. Enough of one for you to shoot her," he spat.

"Mulder..." Scully verbalized his name this time.

"I didn't do it on purpose, Mulder. It was an accident. Besides, I did get put on probation for three months," Ritter thundered back.

"Not long enough for your little trigger happy finger."

"Let's not make a scene, Mulder," Scully mumbled and grasped his hand. _Maybe the physical contact will cool him down._

"You're right. But this time, as I'm leaving her in your care, Ritter, don't...screw...things...up." He gave Ritter a frosty glare, and the younger agent understood his responsibility.

Scully ignored the fact that Mulder was again being overly possessive and squeezed his hand. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to warm up the old soup bone, here," he made a motion as if he were pitching a baseball and released her. "Don't worry. I'll take the subway back home, and if you finish before me, let me know. I'll bring you back a treat."

"You're going undercover as a baseball player?" Ritter wondered.

"Not this time. See you later, Mulder Mantel," Scully mused and took off with him in an opposite direction.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Cafe Europa, New York, New York

April 7th, 2000, 5:17 p.m.

"Oh, my God," a man with a British accent declared to one of his servers as Mulder casually meandered through the door. "I think I'm going to go into the storeroom and piss on myself," he whispered.

"Why, what's the matter?" the girl shrugged.

"That man, that you see there, is _the _Randy Andy!" He took the twenty year old by the shoulder and pointed to the table where Mulder situated himself. He appeared to be squinting at the carefully hand scripted menu from a distance much too far for him to be able to read properly.

"I'm sorry, sir...?"

"Randy Andy Muldron, of Queens! He's the absolute diehard food critic in our metrop, and _no_ one told me that he was in the area. Some little bitches are going to get fired..." the man muttered to himself and saw that Mulder was about to give up and walk over to read the menu. He immediately shoved the girl over with a large printed menu in her hands and waived a good luck to her.

"Hello, Mr. Muldron. Would you care to see our wonderful delights of the day?" She put on the best plastic smile she could muster, and Mulder obliviously accepted the menu from her.

"Yeah, uh, thanks." When he finally realized that she was looming over him like a vulture, he glanced up patiently and grinned back nervously. "I'm...gonna need a minute. Okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Muldron, sir, of course." The British proprietor gave her a worried _what are you doing?_ face as she turned her back, but she calmly told him the situation. He listened for a moment and settled down.

"Look, since this is a last minute situation, I'll handle him personally. Go wait on the others for now, Elizabeth." He sashed over just as Mulder put the menu down and beamed impersonally. "It's such an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Muldron, to have you with us in our Cafe. Tell me, why did you suddenly think to come to Manhattan today? Were you tired of the West End? Staten Island driving you off of your head?"

"It's actually Mul-" The FBI agent began to say but then realized that the Lone Gunmen must have already sent out those 'culinary newsletters' and chosen their own pseudonym for him. _Oh shit. That means that Scully once again did not get to choose the undercover agent names. She's going to kill me._

He snapped himself out of his hellish daydream to concentrate on the present.

"Uh, no, not exactly," he replied slowly.

"Oh, God, you don't hate Europa, do you!"

"I've...not been here for a while, so, I don't really remember," Mulder chose his words gingerly. "And that being the case, I don't think I remember your name."

"Edward Longhard, owner and sole operator of Cafe Europa at your service, Mr. Muldron." Longhard made a petite bow. "What shall we start you off with?"

"Well...uh...I was thinking of some coffee."

"Absolutely smashing, love. What kind?" Longhard gushed.

"Uh...regular...with sugar, I think."

"Arabian, African, Jamaican, French, Colombian, Italian, Mexican...a blend, perhaps?"

"Oh, where's my Scully?" Mulder moaned to himself and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth in chagrin.

"I'm sorry, love, what was that?" Longhard leaned in closer and invaded Mulder's personal space.

"Nothing. Uh...Italian sounds good."

"Espresso, frappuccino, cappuccino, mochaccino, carmelitto...-" As Mulder listened to Longhard rattle off the several choices, he picked the one that he had actually heard of and interrupted the man.

"Espresso, I think. Yeah, that sounds about right," Mulder nodded timidly.

"Of course, Mr. Muldron. White sugar, brown sugar, Splenda, Sweet n'Low, Equal...-"

"Just plain sugar, please. And uh, a big cup of it, huh? I'm getting kind of low on energy."

"Oh, Mr. Muldron, espresso only comes in a demitasse," Longhard mumbled lowly. "It's got plenty of caffeine in itself. But I tell you what? I'll bring you two." He continued on in a louder tone. "You've got to tell me, though, Mr. Muldron, which you prefer, and I'll bring them out to you. Our roasted portobello mushrooms with sweet peppers, provolone cheese and pesto on a baguette. Or, our peppercorn turkey with mozzarella, plum tomatoes, and garlic aioli in the bianca wrap."

"I think I'm just interested in the coffee right now," Mulder tried to dismiss him gently. He had already made enough faux pas for the day. Unfortunately, Longhard made a terrified cry and threw himself into the bewildered FBI agent's lap.

"Oh, God, no! I've worked too hard and too long to be shut down! Please, please, please, don't write a bad review!"

"A bad review? What on earth makes you think that I would do that?" Mulder gulped as he saw the entire coffee house's population of customers and employees witness this dramatic scene.

"You're joking, right?" The owner pulled away but remained on his knees.

"I'm afraid not," Mulder admitted sheepishly.

"But I read that in one of your columns, if you refused any kind of dish at a culinary institute, that that was your kiss of death. Your black spot, your ill wishes, your stormy cloud...-" Mulder patted him on the back.

"It's okay. I'm just here for coffee today. No work." Longhard gave him a hard examination and arose.

"You really had me worried, there, Mr. Muldron. Well, no fear. Even if you're off the clock so to speak, I still insist upon giving you the creme de la creme, so that you may remember us in the future. I shall return with your espresso and condiments. Are you really sure that this will be all for you today?"

"I...think that'd be a wise idea," Mulder nodded and refused to show his gritted teeth behind his stretched lips.

Medical Examiner's Office, New York City, New York

April 7th, 2000, 6:20 p.m.

"You handled that traffic...remarkably well, Agent Scully," Ritter complimented her as they walked down the hall to the examination room. "It's not an easy thing to be able to drive during New York City's rush hour. I'm impressed."

"You must forget what kind of jams we have over in D.C., then." Scully removed her winter coat and set it onto a nearby coat rack. "Ritter, would you mind getting me Dr. Vanderbeek's autopsy reports on both victims, please?"

"No problem."

By the time he returned with two thick manila files, Scully had changed into her scrubs. She opened the refrigerator door and slid DiCostanzo's cadaver out first. After snapping on a pair of latex gloves, she removed the sheet from the body and pressed 'record' on her tape machine. "This is Dr. Dana Scully, reviewing the autopsies of a Mr. George DiCostanzo, 42, of Brooklyn, New York, and a Ms Judy D'Angelo, 22, of Staten Island, New York. The original post mortem exams were done by Dr. Rudolf Vanderbeek, M.E., New York City. I hope to corroborate Dr. Vanderbeek's results and hopefully, find nothing more or less." She eyed Ritter for a moment, took the files, and set them down onto the instrument table. "Agent Peyton Ritter of the New York FBI field office is here to witness me perform the...Ritter, are you with me here?"

He was off in his own world so far as she was concerned.

"Agent Ritter?" He suddenly came back once he heard his name repeated and leaned against a counter with his left hand shielding his eyes.

"Yes, Agent Scully?"

"Are you going to come over here?"

"Uh, are you sawing the body in half yet?"

"I'm not a magician, Ritter." Scully pushed the cart closer to the body. "But, no, I haven't started my internal exam yet. Probably won't do that for another half an hour."

"Okay. Good. I...I'm not one for blood, guts, and gore, if you know what I mean."

"That's perfectly natural, I understand." With that comment, he joined her but remained across the body from the surgical equipment. "I will begin with an external visualization of George DiCostanzo. Victim shows signs of significant head trauma, due to the fact that he was thrown from the cab of a semi into a cement pole."

"Guess he should have worn a helmet," Ritter jibed.

Scully grasped DiCostanzo's jaw and slowly began to move it up and down. "As suspected, the mandibular heads have been separated from the maxillae and have been broken. Victim is also missing several teeth. Vanderbeek cites heavy damage to both the nasal cavity and the frontal sinus--oh, what a surprise, his nose is also broken." She read the file aloud and double checked the observations for herself.

"Hey, Agent Scully, the nose is made of cartilage, right?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"That's hard tissue, if I remember my anatomy class. Anyhow, how can you break something if it's made up of tissue?"

"I really don't have time to teach right now, Agent Ritter, excuse me. Further trauma to the cranium includes the temporal bone, metopic suture, the frontal crest, yadda, yadda, yadda; he pretty much devastated his skull in the crash. Cause of death is fairly transparent, but I will continue to list injuries and/or aberrations as I go along."

"Why would you do that? Like you said, we already know what killed him."

"Just in case something was missed," Scully told him moderately, but it was apparent she was disliking his interruptions more and more. "The giant contusion running across the victim's chest and stomach has crushed and shattered his ribs, again due to contact with a very large cement obstruction, according to Vanderbeek. That's a very large bruise indeed," she agreed as she glanced over him. "And quite colorful. Hmm--no indentations or impressions are found on the left shoulder or the pelvic area."

"What's that mean?"

"He wasn't wearing his seat belt. It probably would have saved his life...well, if the semi had an airbag installed on the wheel. Ritter, would you mind helping me flip him?" Ritter nodded and together, they pushed DiCostanzo onto his right side first then onto his stomach. "Further afflictions to the vertebrae include whiplash and a possible crippling of the spinal cord." Her gloved fingers continued to probe her way down the back and anterior. "Okay. Let's put him onto his back again, please."

"Now for the fun part. Time to undo those stitches," she muttered to herself, but Ritter heard her.

"Um...do you need me here for that much longer?" he inquired.

"Well, maybe for the female victim." Scully put on a pair of safety goggles and reached onto the cart for some scissors and a pair of tweezers. She began the slow task of slicing open the original 'Y' incision Vanderbeek had made and sown up probably last night. Then after remembering Ritter's first squeamish winces, she shook her head. "I guess not, then. I'll get someone else to assist me if necessary."

"Well, after hearing what you two will be doing in the next few days, guess you won't be needing me for anything, will you?"

"Actually, I plan on having toxicology and blood work-ups done on both victims. So I'll be needing your forensic chemists and maybe your assistance with the delivery of the reports." _You're not quite off of the hook, yet, Ritter._

"No problem. Have a good night, Agent Scully." By the timbre of his voice, it sounded like it was a huge inconvenience. But Scully didn't care--he owed it to her--especially because of how he treated her the first time they had worked together. As she worked quietly to open up the truck driver's chest, she thought about her partnership with Mulder. She had to work fastidiously to gain Mulder's respect and trust just like anyone else male in the Bureau. But yet, unlike any other male in the Bureau, he treated her as a pure counterpart. In fact, he had told her just as much two years ago how much of a difference she had actually made in his life. Work life. Hell, she had to be kidding herself if it could be anything more.

Scully turned to the next page in the file and studied it a bit more before parting the cut skin. "Hmmph. Looks like Vanderbeek's internal examination proved a bust on you, George. But, just in case..." It was nice not to have to crack open the ribcage as usual. Instead, she removed the tape and lifted the bones away to stare at the organs that were protected beneath it. She next took a syringe on the cart, extracted some blood, and emptied the needle into a container. "Memorandum: take both containers of blood to the regional office for a toxicology screening and classification for records. Vanderbeek lists the weights of all organs--I doubt that that's incorrect data. I will now re-open the stomach for yet another inspection."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York, New York

April 7th, 2000, 7:45 p.m.

"Wow. It's a very nice place," Mulder told himself as he let himself into the penthouse. He stepped into the foyer and set his keys onto a wooden table and marveled at the spacious abode. The living room had a cathedral ceiling with a set of French sliding doors leading out to an open balcony. A huge screened TV was about five feet away from a six by six fireplace. Behind the love seat, sofa, and leather reclining chair was a bar. It even had a shiny brass railing and four swiveling mounted stools in front of it.

An enticing odor drew him past the bar into the kitchen where Scully stood peeling an onion beside a covered Dutch oven on the range in an apron. "Just where in the hell have you been, Mulder?" she demanded.

"Wait a minute. On April 7th, I show a charge being made to one Acapella restaurant located on Hudson Street for $75," Agent Short broke into Mulder's storytelling. "I did a bit of research, and it's not a take-out type of restaurant. Let's elaborate and tell the truth the next time, Mr. Mulder. Remember, I hold it right in front of me."

"Oh. You're right. I'm sorry--I must have forgotten. We ate out the first night." He shrugged as Short eyed him suspiciously. "It was for research. I kind of didn't do all that well by myself the first time critiquing."

"Well, go on."

Acapella, New York, New York

April 7th, 2000, 10:08 p.m.

"I'm glad you could make it, Scully," Mulder got up from his chair as his partner arrived. The khaki rain coat she wore was draped across most of her front, and she refused to take it off as a waiter came behind her to try to take it.

"No, no, it's okay. I'm cold, I'll leave it on," Scully waived him off.

"Mulder, what's the matter with you? This is a five star restaurant!" she scolded him in a hushed tone. "Had I known its reputation, I wouldn't have even come in here!"

"I'm sorry, did I do something wrong? Is it not fancy enough?" He sat back down warily after she finally did and soughed into her hands.

"No. I came straight from an autopsy bay not half an hour ago, and what I'm wearing doesn't even begin to match the dress code of formal!"

"Oh. I forgot...I apologize, Scully. We could go back to the apartment if you want, but I thought we could do some learning here."

"We? We could do some learning? I know about the finer restaurants, Mulder. It's you that needs the education."

"Okay. Perhaps we could start off with some wine. I know how much you like Shiraz," Mulder offered her his glass, and she shook her head.

"I do, but I don't think that you want the scent of formaldehyde and latex to fill your nostrils every time you go to drink from your glass, because that's what I smell like right now."

"It'd be an interesting new type of wine."

"Very funny. You didn't order a whole bottle, did you?"

"Well, what does one do as a food critic, in that situation, Agent Scully?" He wiggled an eyebrow.

"You didn't answer my question."

Mulder signaled only to his glass and set it back down onto the table. "To be fair, Agent, you should answer mine."

"One usually orders something complimentary to the wine he/she's chosen."

"Would you mind expounding upon that, Scully?"

"In our case, when you drink red wine in an Italian restaurant, you order either a heavy type of meat such as beef or something with a marinara sauce. White wine accompanies a light meat like fish or an alfredo sauce. Of course, these are just normal things that food critics do--it's not absolutely necessary, but if you want to appear to be credible, I'd recommend doing so." She began to devote her complete focus to the menu when the waiter appeared.

"Ah, the Signora has arrived. Should I bring out a second glass, Signor?"

"Please do," Scully spoke for herself. "We're not ready to order yet."

"Yes, ma'am," he bowed his head slightly and took off in the opposite direction from whence he came.

"So, do you think I chose a good place to eat?" Mulder inquired warily, and Scully reverted her eyes back to the menu.

"At these prices, it'd better be. Who's paying for this, anyway?"

"Ritter seemed to be treating you better compared to the last time you two worked together," he observed. Mulder noted her peeved reaction to his elusion of her question by the brief twitching of her closed lower jaw. But then she seemed to be comfortable with his evasion--if she was not, he could only imagine the horrible torture in store for him later on.

"Yes, I noticed that, too. I suppose he finally learned that humility is the correct way to move up the ladder with senior agents instead of smug attitudes."

"Scully, what's farfalle?"

"Hmm...what?" She was pre-disposed in thought and snapped out of it as Mulder repeated his inquiry.

"Farfalle, what is it?"

"Oh, it's the little bow-tied pasta. What're you thinking of getting?"

"The chicken parmigian looks nice. The bow-ties come with it or whatever Angel hair or vermicelli is."

"Very thinly sliced spaghetti."

"Right--that'd make sense. You know, Scully, it never ceases to amaze me as to how readily available your stomach can be right after finishing an autopsy."

"Mmm...sometimes I can be thinking about food right in the middle of one, too," she agreed.

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Eat right after slicing open someone's chest."

"I guess you haven't been noticing me that often, Mulder. I never get to eat immediately afterwards--I'm usually chasing after a monster or filling out paperwork or cleaning this disgusting preservative off of myself," Scully paused from scanning the menu to glance at her fingernails and then went back to her reading. "I even had to forego dinner a few times in between victims, if you remember."

"I do and, before we say anything else, let me thank you for it."

"You're welcome," she finally said after a moment of silence. "There is one thing that I still do hate about doing post mortem exams, though."

"What?"

"Formaldehyde and latex. I can never use enough soap to get the stench off of me. Maybe that's why I haven't had a date in years," she mumbled the last sentence to herself.

"So how did they go--the exams?"

"Oh, just fine and dandy. I had both the procedural and special as per your request toxicology scans run on both DiConstanzo and D'Angelo."

"What'd you find?"

"Don't know yet. The results aren't in--and I gave the lab technician my cell phone number. So don't give me that look, Mulder."

"What? What'd I do?" The waiter came back with Scully's wine and placed a loaf of bread atop a cutting board before the both of them. He drizzled a bottle of olive oil above a bowl of spices and proceeded to cut a few slices of bread from the loaf. The man finished his work and opened a leather folder.

"Signora, what would you like this evening?"

"Signorita, if you don't mind," Scully corrected him. "And I'll have the pasta primevera."

"Ah, so sorry, Signorita. And Signor?"

"The chicken parmigiana--with the farfalle, please."

"Good choice, Signor. Would you like a little more Shiraz?"

"I'd better not. I have to drive back. Thanks, though." As the server left, Mulder tapped the table in front of Scully as she began to sample her wine. "What's this?" he motioned to the appetizer.

"You dip the bread in the sauce and eat it. You've never had this before?"

"All I thought they served in Italian restaurants was garlic bread." As she swished the wine around the front of her mouth, she couldn't help but give him a closed mouthed grin.

"Well, you'll find that with most Italian-American restaurants because most Americans expect that nowadays. At least we've moved out of the "spaghetti must always come with meatballs" phase."

"It doesn't?"

"Oh, Mulder, you're incorrigible." She took a piece of bread and joined him. "So, how did the coffee house critique go?"

"So well that I had to convince the owner that I wasn't working today," he shrank back into his seat slightly and filled his mouth with the bread.

"I think from now on, it'd be a sagacious idea if we stayed together for those."

"Scully, I'm not going to debate with you on that one." Mulder drained his water goblet until it was halfway empty and prepared himself to tell her the rest of the day's bad news. "Scully, I...-"

"Yes?"

_Damn, she's making full eye contact with me. I can't do this yet._

"I was wondering if you found anything else weird with your autopsy."

"Hmm...nothing actually _weird_ as you and I would define it. She died of being flattened against the grille of a semi, and he died from the truck's impact on the street signal. They both had full stomachs. Uh, but that's nothing out of the ordinary."

"Why's that?"

"Well, they did die around lunch time."

"How about what they ate?"

"What?"

"What did they eat?"

"Um...he had...I think some pizza and mozzarella sticks. Not to mention the extra dipping sauce that came with it. She...oh...this one's difficult." She stopped eating her bread for a moment, sat back in her chair, and tapped her fingernails on the armrests.

"What's so hard about figuring out what a Rockette eats? Probably some type of salad and yoghurt with bee pollen. That could be it," he snapped his fingers. "See what I told you about bee pollen?"

"No, no, Mulder, it was a salad. I'm just trying to recollect the ingredients and match them up with my current knowledge of salads. She was a smoker, too..."

"Scully, I hate to tell you this, but the Lone Gunmen already took the initiative and printed our photos with our names in a few cuisine magazines."

"Culinary newsletters," she corrected him. "That's all right. You said they were going to do that, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but..." he swallowed a lump of saliva down his throat and pushed her wine glass towards her. "They kind of already picked out the names without asking us."

"Well, let's hear them," Scully rolled her eyes and quaffed some more of her wine.

"At least yours isn't quite so embarrassing as mine."

"Something worse than Fox Mulder? Do tell."

"Yours is Valerie Scullet. I'm not exactly sure why they picked-"

"An object of the kitchen is named the skillet. You use it to fry, flambee, or sautee things. And yours?"

"I'm not exactly comfortable with that."

"Mulder, either you tell me what yours is or so help me God, this chilled fork is going to be used like one in an ancient Egyptian embalming ceremony." She picked the instrument up and aimed it dangerously near his nose. How could he refuse such an offer?

"Okay--it's Andy Muldron. But the worst part is that I like to use my nickname in my columns apparently."

"And that would be?"

"Randy Andy," he mumbled and covered his face with his palms.

"I guess they tried to conjure up names for how they best remember us. But I don't exactly remember if and when there was ever was a time I cooked for the Lone Gunmen." Their food arrived shortly afterwards. "What's the plan for tomorrow, Randy Andy?"

"First of all, please don't call me that in public. Secondly, I thought we'd look up some restaurants in the Times tonight and hit them in the morning for two reasons. One is for our undercover work."

"And the other?" Scully stopped twirling the pasta around her fork to make eye contact with him.

"I've always wanted to have some eggs Benedict. When would be a better time?"

"Hmm...I totally agree. You mean an Egg McMuffin isn't good enough for you, Muldron?"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York, New York

April 7th, 2000, 11:58 p.m.

"Not that I minded driving back, Mulder," Scully scolded him as she searched through her trench coat pockets for her keys, "but why did you have to consume all of that wine during dinner? We're still on duty, you know."

"Yeah, but, we're not going to be chasing after the aliens anytime soon, are we? They're probably very nice," his speech just started to slur.

"It just makes you less than lucid enough to be able to focus in on the help I've been trying to desperately give you after you loused up that poor British coffee shop review."

"Here, lemme give it a go." Mulder reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. Unfortunately, he couldn't get it in the right way, and Scully guided his hand with her own. Seconds later, the lock turned successfully, and Mulder held the door open for her. As she proceeded through, she felt his fingers creep up onto the small of her back, and he hurled his keys onto the foyer table. Scully swung her head around and seized them.

_That's going to leave an atrocious mark on that expensive wood. I've got to get him to stop it now before it turns into a habit._

"Mulder, I know this furniture doesn't belong to us, but let's try to keep it in the same way it was when we got here, hmm?" She deposited the keys back into his pants pocket, which unfortunately added more fuel to the innuendo fire.

"I think I'll keep doing it if that's what it takes for you to get your hands into my pockets."

"Who said they've never been there before?" He gave her a questioning leer. "It occurred when you were unconscious, of course. Did you pick up the _Times_ like I asked you to earlier?"

"I think it's still sitting on the living room coffee table--but not unadulterated, of course."

"Sit down. I'm going to get you some water. It's time to sober up."

"Yes, Mom." If she had not just had that wonderful Italian meal, that comment would have earned him a glare. Instead, she rewarded him with the uplifting of an eyebrow and disappeared into the kitchen.

When she came back with two very tall glasses of water, she found him sprawled across the recliner and in its fully relaxed position. Both his overcoat and suit jacket were carelessly slung over the back of the chair. Oh well--at least they weren't on the floor. His nose was rammed into the sports section of the paper; a photograph of Patrick Ewing doing a slam dunk graced the cover.

"Unadulterated, my ass, Mulder! Where the hell's the beginning of the newspaper?" she complained whilst looking over the mess completely covering the coffee table.

"I said 'not unadulterated', Scully. Maybe _you_ should sober up." He was still engrossed in the sports section when she sat down with the water. She was very tempted at that moment to throw it into his face, but knew that she'd only soak newspaper. And God, she hated the smell of that. She'd even take a few whiffs of manure over a wet newspaper.

"Remember that I said that the Gunmen were going to put our mug shots and names into a few magazines, Scully?"

"I do recall that conversation, yes."

"Well, they already did, so, I guess they thought up our names already. Yours is Valerie Scullet, and mine's...well...Andy Muldron."

"Mulder, I thought we'd agreed that _I_ was the one to pick the names for our next undercover case!"

"Yeah, well, what's done is done, I guess. You can't turn back the hands of time, dear Scullet."

_Oh, how I want to take that sports section and ram it into that smart ass mouth of his!_

Instead, Scully simply pushed down his newspaper from the middle and handed him his glass of water.

"Now, I think we should probably start simple tomorrow morning. Let me see if I can find the "Dining and Wine" section in this clutter." Mulder chuffed his lips together, set his water down onto the table beside him, and brought the boundary back up to his eyes. Seconds later, she found it and began to page through the section. "Mulder, how does this Norma's Breakfast strike you?"

"Mmph, I'm sure it'll be fine," he remarked without even looking away.

"Okay, really...um...what kind of food do they serve there?"

"Breakfast." Still nothing.

_This means war. Let the gates of Hell be opened._

"Did it ever occur to you _why_ I didn't want to take my coat off while we were in Acapella's?"

"I think you mentioned that it was due to the fact that you were cold."

"Well, that was the excuse. But the real reason is because someone stole my clothes from the morgue, and I'm not wearing anything underneath."

_Bingo._

Mulder's head popped up, and she snatched the sports section away with a huge smirk. "I had you...big time," Scully retorted and crumpled up the basketball holy grail. She tossed it into the hearth mirthlessly.

"Scully, I didn't even get to finish reading the stats of the Knicks' game. Now that's just plain cruelty."

"I haven't lit the fire yet. Maybe if you behave, I'll let you reclaim it." He considered her deal and sat upright in the recliner.

"So what kind of food _is _served at Norma's?"

"Looks like everything from French crepes to Jewish potato pancakes. The menu's listed...ah...right here," she folded the paper over and handed it to him. "You know, for someone such as yourself with such a substantial appetite, I'd think you'd appreciate a little culture every now and then."

"I do. I just...don't get out that much," he shrugged and his eyes skimmed over the words.

"Tell me, Mulder, what's your favorite meal?"

"Why?"

"We're not secret agents, Mulder. It was just a personal question," Scully sighed and arose to take off her trench coat. She shuffled her way into her room to hang the coat up in her closet and by the time she came back, Mulder was on his knees and searching through the black ashes for his beloved sports section. A clearing of her throat announced to him that she had returned; he grabbed a few fireplace matches and reached absently for something small to burn. His apologetic beam and shrug always melted away her pangs of anger--he was displaying them in full capacity now. Unfortunately, he had just unknowingly lit the buried treasure he'd been looking for, and Scully decided not to tell him now.

Mulder threw the scrap onto the wood, which caught the flame, and he replaced the screen back over the hearth. "I really don't have one, Scully. But my favorite time of the day to eat is dinner."

"Mulder, what did you and your family do for Christmas?" He stood and brushed the soot off of his pants.

"Before or after Samantha was taken?"

"You know, we don't have to discuss this if you don't want to. I've got field notes to do." With that, Scully started to wander away again, but he sat down onto the love seat and patted the cushion next to him. She pondered his unasked request for a few agonizing moments but eventually gave in and joined him. "We'll only discuss what you feel comfortable with, Mulder. I meant your traditions before your family split up."

"I'll tell you both if you want. Even though my family name is Jewish, we did Christmas instead. We went over my grandmother's house (from my mother's side) the day of, ate turkey, and opened both wanted and unwanted presents from all sorts of relatives. Then after Sam was gone, I spent holidays at a few friends' houses on the Vineyard, but I...never really felt right at any of their homes." Mulder's face darkened. "My mother would lock herself into her room and refuse to see the light of day or night. And my father once having argued with her the entire morning, would crawl into a bottle of Maker's Mark for the rest of the day, and pass out in his den by the time I got back. Of course, after they divorced and Mom went to live in Connecticut, I'd go see her once I could drive. My father kept to his favored tradition."

"What about when you went to Oxford?"

"I had fun during my undergrad years in some nameless pubs with some acquaintances. Even spent one with Phoebe and her family. But once I started on my other degrees, I kind of shut out the world to focus in on my dissertation, and I forgot about everything around me but my work. I've been that way ever since, as you well know." He eased himself away from the back of the love seat and rested his head upon his hands.

"No one deserves Christmases like that, Mulder. You know, this is kind of early...or late...but, you're welcome to spend Christmas next year with us if you'd like."

"And extend myself to Bill Jr.'s inundating hospitality? Thanks but no thanks, Scully."

"All right, well, what if I promised you that he'll behave?"

"There's only one way that'll happen in his household. You'll have to keep him chained to the fence."

"With three other Scully women to keep him in order, I think he'll watch his p's and q's around you," Scully raised her eyebrows and ran her tongue over her upper lip.

"You know with this last Christmas, I wish I had visited my mother, even though I resented her for the rest of my life after she divorced Dad."

"Oh, Mulder, how could you have known?" She raised her left hand and began to stroke his back re-assuringly.

"No, I mean it, I should have. I'd thought long and hard about it after the few hours we spent together the year before, but I guess I was too damn selfish." She lifted her fingertips and was now tracing her nails onto him lightly.

"I understand, Mulder, believe me, I do. I had a few bad Christmases too, believe it or not."

"Unh, Scully, that feels so good." Mulder closed his eyes and leaned into her. "Were any of them with Daniel?"

Her ministrations paused briefly and his eyes opened halfway to cat-like slits. Scully continued where her fingers had left off, and he let them sink shut again. "Yes. Just one, though--I saw what kind of damage I was doing to his family, and just before New Years, I broke it off with him."

"I'm guessing the holiday probably wasn't spent at either the Waterson or Scully residence." That was enough. This wound was not healed yet. She broke off all physical contact with him and arose.

"Think I'll start on those field notes now. Night, Mulder." He seemed surprised at her reactions but did not chase after her.

"Night, Scully."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Just outside Norma's Breakfast, West End, New York

April 8th, 2000, 8:30 a.m.

"Well, this is the first one on the list, I guess. Tell me, Scully, why'd you call them this morning?" Mulder wrapped _The New York Times_ underneath his arm and rubbed his hands together. Even though it was spring, the weather this morning was still nippy. A rough North wind cut between them at the moment, and Scully enveloped both of her arms around his left elbow for warmth.

"So that they'd know that they have two food critics coming to review their restaurant," she replied.

"Did you actually speak with Norma?"

"That's not the titleholder's name, actually."

"Then who owns the place?"

"We'll find out. I only spoke with the manager."

"Are we actually eating here this morning or just what was the word you used last night? Sampling?"

"I'll tell you what. So that you can learn more about the art of critiquing, you eat whatever you want this morning, and I'll sample. But please do me two favors since I'm doing you this one."

"What's that, Scully?"

"First off, you'd better start calling me by my undercover name. Don't you worry, I'll do the same. You never know which one I'll use either," she smiled capriciously. "And for the second favor, don't say anything about the food. If the proprietor actually _does_ want to know what you think, just pretend you have your mouth full (unless it already is) and say mmm." Scully mimicked the sound for him and gently hugged his arm a bit closer to her chest.

"What about the other part of our job? May I ask questions about the aliens?"

"Muldron, shh..." her eyes scanned the area for anyone that might have heard him. "Also, when we're in public, please call them Drew and Angela."

"Okay, Scully--err...Scullet." As she winced when she heard her alias, he shrugged his shoulders. "What? Would you rather I call you Valerie?"

"Actually no. And yes, you can be the investigator. I'll let you know when to ease off."

"What's the signal? The famous Scullet eyebrow?"

"One more thing, Muldron, before we enter," she halted the both of them in their tracks before he could open the door. "Do me another favor. Every time we hear our undercover names, I want you to write it down either on paper or your memory."

"Okay. Is that purpose going to be beneficial for us?"

"Each time represents a solid fist to a Lone Gunman face."

"Gotcha," he chortled and opened the door to enter with her. "But I still don't get why the owner's not named Norma."

"I'm sure the person will tell us the entire restaurant's history--whether we want it or not."

"Hello. Just the 2 of you this morning?" a hostess questioned Scully, who nodded.

"Yes. I spoke with your manager earlier this morning. I'm Valerie Scullet, and this is Andy Muldron."

"Oh, yes! How wonderful. Come right this way. We have outside seating as well on our back terrace, but I gather that it's still a bit chilly outside." They followed her to a booth where she presented them with menus and rolled up serviettes. "Can I take your coats?"

"Yes, please," Mulder answered and eased himself out of his navy blue trench coat. He tossed the newspaper onto the table and held his hand out towards Scully.

"I'm fine, actually," she shook her head and sat down. The hostess accepted Mulder's coat and disappeared to hang it up.

"Mr. Rhinehart will be right out, Mr. Muldron and Ms. Scullet," she called from over her shoulder.

"Wow, they certainly have a lot of unique choices. I don't think I've ever heard of serving granola in a restaurant before," Mulder mused as he perused his carte.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Mulde--uh, Muldron, I spoke with a man named Rhinehart over the phone this morning. He's got to be the manager," Scully observed.

"All right. One second, Ms. Scullet," he held up his index finger and stood slightly to search his back pockets. Finding nothing, he sat back down and started to tap the breast pockets underneath his pullover. "Shit," he mumbled.

"Now what?"

"Think I left my notebook in my coat pocket. Don't worry, I still have the newspaper and a pen."

"Very creative, Muldron. Can't wait to type up those notes for Skinner. I'm going to have to go through Hell and high waters to try to make sense out of it."

"Is that any different from my other notes? Besides, I'll start on the first page."

"That's _very_ reassuring, thank you," she gave him a sharp scowl.

"Welcome to Norma's! You must be Valerie, and this is the infamous Randy Andy. Mr. Smitherman is out of the state, today--unfortunately." Rhinehart presented himself flamboyantly, and there was something to be said about the awful toupe resting atop his head. It honestly looked like something had died on his cranium.

"You said Mr. Smitherman is the owner?" Scully repeated for Mulder's benefit.

"Yes, rather. He's out dealing with one of our suppliers in Montreal. I called him immediately after you said you were coming this morning, and he apologizes profusely for not being here." Rhinehart touched his vested stomach and bowed his head submissively.

"That's quite all right. I wouldn't mind tasting your selection of crepes, to start us off, please. And some French coffee for the both of us," Scully continued.

"Good choice, Valerie. And Randy Andy?" Mulder closed his eyes in frustration and pointed to the list.

"Yeah, I think I'll have the Eggs Benedict with the...whole works you have listed here."

"You're not going to sample anything this morning?"

"Well, when we work together, one of us eats a whole meal while the other does the tasting," Scully explained. "Today's Muldron's turn at breakfast."

"Ah, I see. What a system you two have!" Rhinehart beamed roguishly and slinked away.

"Scullet, my dear, why is it that so many, uh...how do I put this without sounding insulting..."

"Why do so many gay men run restaurants? What's so horrible about that?"

"Nothing. I was just wondering why it's such a popular thing."

"Couldn't tell you. I don't have too many as friends. But there are a few men in my apartment building that make me wonder which way they butter their bread. So yes, straight women can still be puzzled just as easily as straight men."

The manager came back with a silver carafe and two coffee cups. He poured the beverage effortlessly into them and distributed the cups to Mulder and Scully. "How much do you plan on tasting this morning, Valerie?"

"I was just thinking about the crepes. We're due for another appointment this morning for brunch at another place. But I do promise to come back another time and try some more. Breakfast just happens to be my favorite meal of the day." Mulder lifted his head upon hearing her last sentence and scrawled that fact down illegibly in a corner away from his mainstream notes. _What a surprise. I thought she wasn't a morning person._

"Oh, that's wonderful. Where are you brunching?"

"In Brooklyn--a place called Chip Shop," Scully responded. "Tell me, Mr. Rhinehart, have you ever heard of a restaurant called Narcissus' Ochroid Patella?"

"Goodness, what person in our city hasn't? It's owned by an enchanting couple named Drew and Angela Robinson. Everyone who's everyone in the taste world knows them."

"We'll be going to that place in a few days. We just would like to know what to expect, if you know."

"World class gourmet served with a cheery smile. You know, we're in competition, of course, but they serve more lunch and dinner items, so I can speak more freely about them. The funny thing is, they are a local attraction, not just because of the food and charm, but because of who they look like."

"Oh? Whom do they look like?"

"Richard Gere and Jodie Foster. Whoops, I'll be right back with your meals." He spun around and waddled off around the corner from the booth.

"Interesting," Mulder nodded, flipped _The Times _open, and folded it up to begin his observations on the next page. "Look-a-like celebrity aliens."

"Mulder!"

"That's Muldron, Scullet," he chastised her merrily. "And we're not in the open public. I'm not screaming it from table to table."

"Good thing. Some of those punches would then actually be meant for you. Where do we stand, by the way?"

"Thirteen. I counted each time we said them, too. Hope you don't consider that cheating."

"Not at all, Muldron."

"Oh, they are going to get pummeled by the time we solve this case and see them again."

"So, Muldron, what kind of a species would own a restaurant and live on earth undercover as a happily married human being couple?"

"It could be a cross-breed between the two--Reticulans and the bounty hunters. I mean, they're killing people, aren't they?"

"That's a big IF, Muldron--the killing, I mean. I'm not going to rule it out because I'm a scientist and because of all of the extremely strange things I've seen happen with the X-Files."

"Oh, Scullet, you don't know how long I've been waiting to hear those words..."

"But I didn't say that you were right," she hissed and kicked him in the shin.

"Ouch. Well, I'm willing to approach this as logically and rationally as I can, dear Scullet," Mulder simpered and set his hand atop hers. "How long have you been waiting to hear me say that?" he whispered just inches away from her ear.

"Long enough, Randy Andy," she muttered and shoved his face away. "Quit it." However, she left his hand untouched.

"So sorry to have kept you waiting," Rhinehart announced on his way back from the kitchen and had a subservient help him deliver the platters of food. "Here you are, Mr. Muldron. Eggs Benedict with Canadian bacon, pancakes, and grilled asparagus. And Ms. Scullet, your crepes await your attention."

"This looks fabulous. I absolutely love all the different types of garnishes that you use here," Scully enthused. "Do you use a separate kind for each specific dish you serve?"

"We alternate them between the egg dishes and crepes. I'd love to say that we have 25 individual designs, but that's simply not so," Rhinehart stated.

"Would you mind telling us some more about Drew and Angela, please?"

"Well, since Mr. Smitherman's not here, I suppose that I could. Normally, I would entertain you only with the history and establishment of Norma's, but we're all professional. I'll give you a brochure on your way out for your review," he winked and leaned toward Mulder to whisper this.

"Thanks very much," Mulder nodded.

"Let's see...like I said, they're married. Ah, yes. You know how some owners only appear in their restaurants once in a blue moon, right?" He did not wait for a reply. "Well, Drew and Angela actually work in their establishment _every_ day. They don't serve every meal, mind you, unless they're short of staff. But they always come out and ask every guest how much or how little he or she enjoys the food. And by the way, how are you liking yours?"

"I haven't tried the brie and black forest ham yet, but I'm looking forward to it. Everything else is delicious so far," Scully said. As Rhinehart's eyes went to Mulder, he did as he promised Scully and gave a nod with the sound of a full mouth.

"Splendid. Ah, where was I? Oh yes, I remember now. Drew and Angela have been up and running for the past...maybe ten years? I can't remember the exact frame of time. I've only been working here for five years. Their popularity has grown by the exponent since that time, I must say. And back then, they were still pretty successful."

"Oh, I love this melted brie. You know what would be perfect with this? A cup of fruit perhaps. Do you serve them as extra side dishes?" Scully broke in.

"You know, I've been mentioning it to Mr. Smitherman for the past year. And I think my advice, pardon the expression please, goes in one ear and out the other."

"How many people request it?"

"At least three times a day. So to keep them satisfied, I have the chefs put something together just in case it is requested--and at no charge."

"Well, that's unfortunate that he doesn't listen to you. But please do go on."

"I know this is awfully candid of me, Valerie, but how often do you ask about a fellow competitor?"

"All the time. It's a bit unorthodox, I know, but we like to find out what the 'word is out on the street'."

"All right. I'll give you one more piece of information about them. But it's more of a rumor. Other than that, I can't say much more." Mulder stopped eating for a moment and set down his silverware completely.

"Why's that?" He picked up the newspaper and started to write feverishly.

"I don't want to be labeled as Mr. Gossip in your column," Rhinehart replied curtly.

"You won't be mentioned...as their informant, that is," Scully assured him.

"Rumor is that after eating at that restaurant...people sometimes die. And no one knows exactly how or why. I've eaten there myself once. As you can see, I didn't pass away, but...something did not sit well with me after I finished my meal there. Mind you, it was excellent, and I don't understand why I survived, but I tell you this for sure--many people have eaten there and died a couple of hours later."

"Do you suspect poisoning?" Mulder encouraged him.

"I'm not going to say any more, Randy Andy. I'm sorry. I have a question for you, though."

"And that is?"

"Why are you writing on a newspaper?"

"Oh, ah...I left my notebook in my coat pocket. I didn't feel like getting up to get it." Suddenly, Scully's cell phone rang, and she excused herself from the table leaving a very nervous Mulder with Rhinehart.

"So, Randy Andy...you're not attached, are you?" Rhinehart questioned him.

_Not really, but I hope to be someday._

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked.

"You're not wearing a wedding ring. And with a name like Randy Andy, well, in the world of food...you know." Mulder's gaze shifted from his company to his companion for a fleeting moment. "Ah, I see how it is."

"Um, I think I hear Scullet calling me."

"Why do you call her by her last name instead of Valerie?"

"She prefers it that way."

"Should I start calling her that?"

"No. Uh, I don't know how to say this, but, uh...I'm straight," he whispered.

"Dearest Andy, I had _that _figured out five minutes ago when I saw you staring at her ass as she got up to leave from this booth. How long have you two been working together?"

"On and off for the past seven years," Mulder decided to be truthful.

"You're waiting for her approval, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, it's obvious that you're the one wanting things to move along. I may be gay, dear Andy, but I'm certainly not unobservant to the heterosexual world. Why do you think so many women have gay men as friends?"

_You've got a point there. Scully did mention the fact that she doesn't have any. Does that mean that she can already see what's coming? Or is that a green light? Oh--women can be so difficult to figure out!_

"Do you...notice and/or comprehend the same things coming from a woman?" Mulder inquired.

"I must say I don't normally make it my business. But if you're asking about her, I'd say to go ahead at the same pace and subtly so. She's waiting for you but doesn't want to be rushed."

_Great. At that rate, I'll have to start buying Viagra._

"You noticed all that about us in just a little over an hour?" Mulder checked his watch and gave Rhinehart a perplexed stare.

"Love can be blind. But to the third party, it's rather obvious," Rhinehart grinned. "So, how was everything?"

"Oh, uh..." Mulder picked up his coffee cup and drank it slowly as Scully made her way back over to the booth.

"Sorry about that," she apologized. "_Cooking Light's_ editor was haranguing me about the article due for May's issue. And the deadline's not for another week!" Rhinehart's foot began to tap on the floor. "I'm sorry, were you waiting for me?"

"Just to hear the final verdict," the man's bottom lip twisted.

"Well, all we have to say is wow." Scully tapped Mulder's hand twice, and as his eyes went down to their semi-intimate embrace, she withdrew her hand. "Do you agree, Muldron?"

"Yeah," he nodded submissively and snagged her hand underneath the table. "A-1."

"All of the designs definitely were eye-catchers, and I couldn't enjoy the tastes more. They had just the right amounts of air, correct temperatures, were al dente, and the best part was that I didn't need to constantly down coffee after each bite. The moisture was excellent--nothing was too dry or wet. I always worry about that when I'm consuming crepes. The only suggestion I pose is the very same one that you gave to Mr. Smitherman."

"Maybe he'll listen to a proper food critic this time," Rhinehart huffed. "Well, thank you, Valerie and Randy Andy. I value your opinions very much--you obviously know what you're talking about. Some people we get just rattle anything that first comes to their mind--I hate bullshitters. As I say, Mr. Smitherman was very sorry not to be here, and we'll forget the conversation about Drew and Angela, won't we?"

"Mum's the word," Mulder agreed.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Chip Shop, Brooklyn, New York

April 8th, 2000, 11:29 a.m.

"Yeah, I know Drew and Angela Robinson. They look like Richard Gere and Jodie Foster," the owner admitted to Mulder and Scully while they were again eating. "My brother owns a newspaper stand on the same block where their restaurant is. He thinks it's some kind of odor they have in the restaurant."

When both agents gave him quizzical expressions, he went on.

"You know--that incense? I think they burn it like there's no tomorrow."

"As far as I know, there are no toxic fumes from incense sticks or wax. Otherwise, they wouldn't be sold," Scully stated.

"Where's the truth in that? They sell Diet Coke and when that stuff gets to room temperature, it's deadly."

"How does one inhale Diet Coke?" Mulder wondered. "And have you met them?"

"Mr. Muldron, I operate outta Brooklyn. I don't go across the G.W. bridge except maybe once every two weeks to see my brother."

"I'll take that as a no," Scully insinuated. "When was the last time you had a USPH inspection?"

"A couple of months ago," he shrugged. "Why?"

"I found a nice big strand of blonde hair in my French toast. I'd suggest the utilization of hair nets--or a more stringent enforcement of the rule," she said, repulsed, and showed it to him before flinging it to the floor.

"I think the bacon needs to be a little crispier," Mulder pointed to his plate. Scully threw him an exasperated grimace and tapped his foot with hers.

"Are you reviewing this restaurant in your column next week or am I, Muldron?"

"I was just trying to offer some assistance to this guy."

"You two must be married," the owner laughed and shook his head.

"What?" Mulder cried.

"You argue like there's no tomorrow...and there's nobody that can piss a man off more than his wife." Scully cleared her throat and directed his attention to her vacant left fourth finger. "Sorry, I was wrong. You're thinking about it, aren't you?"

"I'm _thinking_ about putting this restaurant on my 'B' list," she responded and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. "I've also been watching how your servers attend your customers. That woman over there has been pleading for some more coffee for the last ten minutes."

"Hey, Serina! Get your ass out here! Somebody wants some more coffee!" He yelled and jerked his thumb behind himself. "Anything else you want?"

"No, I think we're done," Mulder shook his head and they arose. "There's some room for improvement here, but thanks for the information."

_I think I could run a better restaurant_, Mulder thought.

"Wait a second. What're you saying?"

"Your restaurant is on the borderline of sucking ass. I don't even want to know what the galley looks like," Scully finished and slid into her coat. "And I'm going to write just as much in my column, if not more."

"Fine. See if I care," he huffed and left them.

"Just what was that phone call about, dear Scullet?" Mulder questioned her as they walked outside.

"Which one? Oh, the _Cooking Light_ call. Yeah, it was the FBI lab tech with the toxicology results."

"And?"

"Well, he found an organic liquid in both stomachs. But he's not quite sure of what it is. He was running searches throughout an index last night, which is why it took him a while to get back to me."

"What about a complex processed mixture?"

"A powder? That's possible--the stomach does ingest all consumed energy with the help of enzymes also located in the mouth."

"What if there's a spice that they use that comes only from their planet that causes this chaos? What do you say to that?"

"I'd say that we should exhaust all earthly possibilities before stretching to the stars, Muldron."

"Is that what our dear Agent Ritter is doing right now?"

"Although it's not his field of expertise, I could have him assist the lab technician." When Mulder agreed, she dug her cell phone from out of her pocket, and they strolled down the stairs to the subway station.

Daisy May's BBQ USA, Midtown West, New York

April 8th, 2000, 3:19 p.m.

"I'm sorry about that Chip Shop, Scully. That guy really was an asshole," Mulder apologized as they meandered their way around the corner from the subway station. "Food sucked, too. But, to make it up to you, I'll buy you lunch here."

"Where? Mulder, this street is filled with nothing but auto repair shops and lumberyards."

"O ye of little faith, Scully." Mulder pointed straight ahead. He again guided her down the sidewalk with a firm hand pressed into the small of her back, and she was glad that the temperature had warmed up. "Now mind you, we're not going to do any critiquing here, but I am going to ask the owner some questions about Drew and Angela."

"That's fine with me--I could do of a bit of a break from work."

"I was thinking about discussing the case in further depth, actually." Just as she was going to berate him further, he stopped in front of the restaurant and held the door open for her.

"Mulder, barbecue. Oh, it's going to take me weeks to lose this weight!" she cursed and went inside.

"Scully, you are going to indulge yourself. You've been eating far too many garden salads for my liking. Now tell me that you wouldn't throw out a nice crisp Greek salad in a heartbeat for a chance to get some freshly smoked baby-back ribs." _For your liking? Since when have you a right to govern my eating habits, Mulder?_

Scully did have to admit to herself that he was right--baby-back ribs with a few dashes of Louisiana hot sauce and of course barbecue sauce was her idea of Heaven on a plate.

She let his comments slide and let him pull out her chair for her once they were told where to sit. Scully commenced to browse her laminated menu when a college aged lumberjack walked up to them. "What can I get for ya?" their waiter asked and took out a notebook from his waist apron. The Indian red flannel shirt he wore must have been part of the uniform; several other servers hustling around had the same piece of clothing. Either that, or she had missed some kind of new fad in New York City. His stonewall blue jeans were hugging him in all the right places, too.

"I'll have some iced tea, non-sweetened, of course," Mulder announced.

"And for you, ma'am?" One eye was keeping a watch on the menu--the other, well...it was wandering around where it probably should not have been.

"Scully?"

"Ah...Diet Coke, please." She glanced upward to make eye contact with him and smiled apathetically. He made sure Mulder's eyes were back on her menu before giving her a slight wink and spun around.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Mulder's lips were in a disapproving pout. Scully went back to her carte as well.

"What?"

"Diet Coke? Come on, Scully. Live a little."

"Now you're one to talk," she grunted. "Mr. Cup o' Soup."

"This pulled pork sandwich looks great. Baked beans, corn on the cob in Cheddar cheese, corn bread. Wow. Scully, do you know how long it's been since I've been to a real barbecue?"

"How long?"

"The last one I went to was in 1990 at the VCS picnic. I think it was at Reggie's house."

"Mulder, Ballpark hot dogs and half pound burgers over a broiler don't count as a barbecue."

"Sure they do. You just add a little sauce, that's all."

"No, you have to have an open flamed pit over charcoal. That's where the real smoky flavor comes from."

"Since when do you know so much about barbecues?"

"Remind me next time we have 'movie night' to bring over _Fried Green Tomatoes_."

"Aww, Scully, not another chick flick."

"You'll like it, Mulder. It's got both a murder and cannibalism in it."

"Cannibalism, eh? Maybe that _does_ sound like my kind of--how long have you been standing there?" Mulder put down his menu as their attendant hovered over them.

"Long enough to hear your little 'domestic dispute'," he admitted with an air of disapprobation. "What'll we be having?"

"The Kansas City King Platter, and my two sides will be the baked beans and corn bread."

"Do you fancy your corn bread Northern or Southern style?"

"What?"

"I think he meant to ask you if you want your corn bread sweet or not," Scully replied.

"Oh. Sweet, please."

"Ma'am?"

"The half slab baby-back ribs. I'll just have one side dish: the coleslaw, please."

"We'd also like to speak with the owner, if he's in today," Mulder began. "We're with the-"

"We'd just like to know a little bit about the area restaurants, if he's available. Some acquaintances of ours run one, and we'd appreciate it if he could take the time to speak with us about it," Scully intercepted him just before he could blow their cover.

"Hmm. I'll go talk to the manager and see if he's in after I place your orders," the server acknowledged their petition.

"Is there a reason why you interrupted me, Scully?" Mulder finally inquired after the waiter was long out of earshot.

"Yes. You were about to expose us. And it's Scullet, by the way."

"We're not doing any reviewing now, Scullet," he growled and put an emphasis on her alias.

"That's no reason for us to sit here and talk so openly about our undercover work, especially since our aliases are out in the open."

"Didn't you say that nobody reads those culinary newsletters?"

"I said that...never mind what I said, Muldron. Word of mouth still travels faster than any email or literary publication, and believe it or not, these proprietors _do_ speak with one another, unless they harbor grudges."

"I find that hard to swallow."

"Well, just know that in the world of food, it is possible for one owner to go over to his/her competitor across the street and converse about business over a cup of coffee. It'd be like working on the bull pen floor again."

"That's a rather double edged retort coming from you. Are you that desperate to be working up there? I could file the paperwork on Monday if that's true."

"Damnit, Mulder, you've got this way of twisting practically everything I say into an insult towards you, and it really pisses me off! No, I don't want to work up there with anyone else! I'd much rather be stuck in a cramped room in the basement with five of you than in a comfortable office with five of them. It hurts me that you still think that because I'm not constantly on the same wavelength with you that I'm your enemy."

"You're right, I'm sorry. I was being selfish." He added a few packets of sugar into his iced tea and stirred it around in the glass with the long handled teaspoon given. "Hey, what was your cell phone call about? The _Cooking Light_ one, to be specific?"

"We found some traces of mescaline trimethoxy phenethylamine in both of their systems, as a matter of fact. Well, okay, actually, it's not technically mescaline...-"

"Then what is it?"

"Well, he wasn't sure. The chemical analysis machine printed out results that said mescaline trimethoxy phenethylamine. However, when the chemist looked at the mixture, there were more complicated structures attached to them. He gave me the break-down over the phone, but unfortunately, I need to see the organic compounds myself to get the full picture. He's going to do some more testing and research on the DEA's list of alkaloids, but he might not find anything. I'll go over to the lab tomorrow morning and see if I can be of any help to the poor guy. He sounded completely excited but perplexed at the same time."

"Hmm. I get the same reaction when I mix raisins in with my sunflower seeds."

"I've never seen you eat raisins with your seeds before."

"I don't do it too often, Scully. In fact, I don't think I've done it since Diana moved out of my apartment."

"Well, _that_ was a while ago. Why would she have any influence over what you eat?"

"Scully, er...Scullet, _every _woman in my life has had some kind of influence over what I eat, albeit big or small." He patted himself over his heart theatrically. "Of course whether I listened to her or not is entirely a different matter."

_There's a big surprise._

"Hey, Scullet, what about that theory I told you earlier?"

"Refresh my memory, please. There have been so many in the past twenty-four hours that I think I may be suffering from short term memory loss."

"The one where it's a particular spice that might be the catalyst in this caper. Yes, my pun was fully intended, by the way."

"Are you suggesting that Drew and Angela are adding some kind of kick to their food that's causing the entire population of New York to go nuts and ultimately, prone to kill themselves?"

"Not all the inhabitants, Scullet, just the ones that commune at Narcissus' Ochroid Patella." His foot began to tap restlessly, and the table shook a couple of times after he accidentally banged his knee against the pole.

"What's the matter, Muldron? Did your foot fall asleep again?"

"No. I'm waiting for the rebuttal."

"I've none to give you, as a matter of fact." Their food arrived, and Scully's eyes grew as large as saucers when she saw the huge rack of ribs placed in front of Mulder. They stayed just as huge when she noticed the waiter tie a "King of the Ribs" bib around his neck and continue to put plates on the table.

"This is Mr. Adam Perry Lang, owner of Daisy May's BBQ USA," the server declared with a showy waive and bowed upon his exit. Lang was a stocky and heavy-set man in his early thirties. He sported a New York Knicks sweatshirt over a white crew neck t-shirt, a pair of Knicks basketball shorts, and a Knicks baseball cap to match. He motioned to Mulder's bib and grinned knowingly.

"A man who loves his ribs is a man after my own heart," Lang chuckled. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"My name's Muldron, and this is Valerie Scullet. We were just wondering about some of the restaurants around the area...we're going to Niagara Falls for a vacation eventually, but...we had a specific one in mind. If you wouldn't mind telling us a bit about it, we'll tell all of our friends back at home in D.C. that this is only good place to stop in New York for a decent rack of ribs. Believe me, we know a lot of people."

"I'll be happy to tell you anything about any of my friends in the area," Lang nodded. "Which one?"

"Naricuss' Ochroid Patella." Lang's grin turned into a scowl.

"Are you cops?"

"No. We're just looking into some place good to eat."

"Then you'd better head straight to Niagara Falls for your honeymoon or whatever."

"Why's that?" Scully jumped in.

"It isn't a good place to eat. They got problems."

"Rat infestations, uncleanliness, faulty plumbing..." As she listed a few problems, Lang eyed her suspiciously.

"Could be. All I know is that lots of people are either dying or feeling like they're about to," he remarked. "And they're aliens," he said in a hushed tone.

"What?" Scully pretended to be overtly incredulous, but in truth, she was still skeptical of that possibility.

"I said those are aliens running that restaurant."

"How can you be so sure?" Mulder questioned him.

"I've met them before. They're way too nice and kind to be a happily married human couple."

"So this is a hunch, right?" Mulder probed.

"Look. All I gotta say is that a mother knows her kids, right? Well, I'm a full human being, and I know that they ain't no humans."

"A full human being? What creature isn't that's walking on two legs around this city?" Scully wondered.

"You'd be surprised, lady. Didn't you ever see _Men in-_"

"Nope, never have, never will," Mulder finished for her. "That was just a movie, anyway."

"You should be more open minded, Mr. Muldron. But like I said, don't go eat there. You're looking for trouble. Didn't you hear about that truck driver that hit the Rockette two days ago?"

"Well actually-" Scully began, but Mulder cut her off.

"No, we didn't. What happened?"

"She got run over by him, and he hydroplaned into a street light. Both were dead on impact." He slammed his fist into the palm of his head for the effect. "The police are saying that she wasn't paying attention to traffic, and that he was on drugs. But so far, nobody's listened to the other Rockette that was with her. She's got a whole different story. The driver had a spotless record of drug tests--never failed one, and he'd been working with Budweiser for over fifteen years. Since both of 'em died just during lunch hour, if I were a cop, I'd check to see where they ate--not that I'd be surprised."

"Who's the other Rockette?"

"No clue. Why's it matter to just a couple of tourists?"

"Uh, no reason," Mulder responded and refused to meet a very irate Scully's eyes.

"Right. Okay, then, enjoy your lunch," Lang remarked and left. "Gotta be either be spooks, G-people, or worse...oh, no...well...it ain't my restaurant that's gonna be going to Hell."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York, New York

April 8th, 2000, 8:01 p.m.

"Scully, could you do me a favor?" Mulder questioned his partner as he carried the boxed pizza into the kitchen after her. He set it down onto the island countertop and watched Scully fill up the refrigerator with the six pack of Michelob.

"What's that?" she asked with her back turned to him.

"Could you please take one of those and smash me over the head with one?" That earned him a slight delay in her current actions, but she then continued her chores.

"Why would I want to waste a perfectly good bottle of beer over something so trivial?"

"Ha ha. This is the most unhealthy dinner I've ever partaken of with you so far. I just wanted to make sure that I didn't step into one of my parallel universes. Or better yet, Scully, pinch me."

"Maybe you're hallucinating, Mulder, because there's no way on God's green earth that I'd pinch you."

"But perhaps, just perhaps, I'm stuck in the middle of one where there are 1,000 Scullys all around me. And the first one is quite gentle. The second gets playful. The third gets feisty. And the next is-"

"Mulder, the pizza's going to get cold. And I for one am not going to eat cold pizza that I've paid for out of my own pocket."

"Point taken." Mulder practically jumped into the recliner and switched on the big screened TV. "Hey, Scully's there's a Knicks' game on tonight! They're playing the Pacers. Have we got a dinner date on the couch?"

"Not a chance. Remember how expensive this furniture is? I'm not going to leave its fate up to the stars or any other deity that one streak of grease won't end up somewhere on it. We're going to eat at the table properly for once."

After she had the table set, she called Mulder over to her. He begrudgingly left the TV on at a low decibel level, but she flicked the power off after he sat down to concentrate on the pizza.

"Sorry to do that to you, Mulder, but I promise, I won't let you burn up the sports section tomorrow before you get your due satisfaction. I have a good reason--I want your undivided attention."

"Me? Burn up the sports section? You were the one that threw it into the fireplace in the first place!"

"Before there was a fire, yes I did. All that aside, Mulder, it's time for a game of truth with Scully."

"I think I'm going to need that beer now," he started to get up, but she gave him a sharp frown. "What if I don't want to play? What if I just want to watch?"

"Unfortunately, it's your turn to pitch, and nobody else is there to relieve you. I have a slim premonition that's been hanging like a monkey on my back ever since you showed me that 'reliable tip' from the Gunmen, and it's telling me that you're hiding something from me...again," she muttered the last two syllables.

"I do have to admit that the last few times I've been to see the Gunmen that I had an ulterior motive to playing _Dungeons and Dragons._ We've been gradually piecing back all of the recovered but mostly damaged X-Files through a trial piece of software they're prototyping."

"Oh, brother. Which company did they rip that from?"

"Don't know. They won't even tell _me_, Scully. And that hurts me right here," he pointed to his gut and rammed the last part of his crust into his mouth.

"Join the club. It's time to come clean, Mulder. How old is this case?"

"Almost ten years old."

"Don't stop now, Spooky. You were just getting warmed up."

_And don't you dare think for a minute that that sly grin is going to distract me from getting the whole nine yards out of you._

"Okay. This was one of the first babies I ever pulled after I founded the X-Files Division. To tell you the truth, Diana and I spent the first month cleaning out the storage room next door first. But it didn't stop there. We kept getting these mysterious deliveries from all the other departments, too--euphemisms for 'junk cases too weird for us'. So those eventually got added to the other piles. They were just as dusty as all the others, in case you were wondering. Scully? Hello?" He snapped his fingers back and forth a few inches from her face, and she blinked hard twice.

"Sorry. For a minute there, Mulder, I was beginning to wonder if _I'd_ been sucked into your butterfly paradoxical universe--two words caught me off guard: "I" and "clean"."

"I'll go into details about how I scrub my toilet if you tell me that it turns you on."

"I think Martha Stewart would probably get a thrill out of it. Go on--you were cleaning with Diana."

"Doesn't that make you a wee bit jealous? I was getting dirty with another woman."

"Tell you what. When we get back to our office, we'll have a cleaning session of our own, and we'll get as dusty and dirty as you want...provided it's a day we both agree upon. I'm not getting another one of my Oxford Brooks Brothers suits dry cleaned because you suddenly decide that it's time for spring cleaning." His nose wrinkled with mild distaste, but he continued his tale.

"As we sorted and read through some of these cases, we categorized them into three different boxes: 'subtly strange but interesting', 'not worth even _our_ time', and 'ancient history'."

"I was wondering what those acronyms stood for two months ago. Prey tell, which one did this case fit?"

"Not worth even _our_ time. But somehow, it was one of those files that managed to survive the fire."

"Wait a second. N.W.E.T. is a box that we reserve for the garbage, right? How did that case file get back into the cabinet if it was supposed to be incinerated?"

"Uh...well...I changed my mind at the last minute because it looked 'subtly strange but interesting'. So I kind of shoved it into the back of the cabinet when Diana wasn't looking." This time he arose and came back with two opened beer bottles. "So I looked into it later that night at my apartment. I thought it was a joke at first. The file had nothing but tabloid reports and exterior photographs of the restaurant. Then beneath those, there was a report. But the only thing that wasn't blacked out with permanent marker were the words 'New York' and 'Drew and Angela Robinson'. Kind of made me wonder if it came from the fraud department. But I'll never know because of the cruel invention of the Sharpie."

Assistant Director Walter Skinner's Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 14th, 2000, 9:35 a.m.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Scully, but I see an issue here that needs to be addressed," Skinner broke into her narrative and motioned his finger to the expense list that was lying on his desk.

"Go ahead, sir."

"There was a charge here made to Saks' Fifth Avenue for two brand new silk ties--at sixty dollars a piece, I might add. Now please be so kind as to inform me why the FBI is paying for an addition to Agent Mulder's wardrobe."

"I'm just as surprised as you, sir. I had no idea he did that." Her innocence seemed austere, so he returned his gaze to the list and flipped the sheet over.

"Any theories as to why that would happen?"

"I have a somewhat plausible conclusion."

"Let's hear it."

"Well, there was a certain incident that occurred that night in the apartment."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York, New York

April 8th, 2000, 9:47 p.m.

"Shit," Scully lamented as she threw the blanket down and her headphones in a heap onto the footstool. There was a definite dripping sound around here somewhere. She had heard it faintly at first and thought that it was a faucet leaking on her recording, but then she turned her autopsy notes off and listened for a few seconds.

It was driving her crazy as she came closer to the source, and it was, as she suspected, in her bathroom. Scully flipped the light on and proceeded to investigate the room meticulously. She first opened the sink cabinet and inspected the copper piping, but it was sound. She next shoved the shower curtain aside and listened to the plumbing in the clawed tub. Nope, strike two.

Scully pushed her hair back behind her ears and knelt down beside the toilet. _Home run!_ But unfortunately, there was nothing to shout gleefully about. The water feeding tube was spewing forth tiny droplets of fresh water onto the granite floor. She tried flushing; apparently that wasn't working either. Well, the only other remedy she knew to try was to turn the valve off to stop the leaking. Of course, when she tried, it was stuck and did not budge.

She groaned, arose, and tied a robe around herself before roaming into the living room. Mulder was there snoozing in his recliner perfectly positioned in front of the big screened TV with a basketball game on. Scully hated having to resort to disturbing a man sleeping in such tranquility, but the problem needed to be fixed now, or else the bathroom would be completely flooded.

"Mulder. Mulder," she tried and patted him on the shoulder.

"Ahh, Scully," he sighed with pleasure but did not stir.

"Psst. Wake up, Mulder." Scully then tapped him on the cheek with her fingertips. The contact made his eyelids flutter open, and he jerked upright, nearly hitting her.

"Damn. How long have I been out?"

"I'm not sure. I started listening to my autopsy notes at about nine fifteen...oh, anyhow, that doesn't matter. I need your help for a minute."

"What is it?" She pulled him out of the chair by the hand and led him into her bathroom. "Where's that water coming from?"

"The toilet. I think the problem's in the feeding tube--maybe the hose has a hole in it somewhere. Unfortunately, I think it's invisible to the naked eye, and that valve needs to be shut the other way. Then we can call the landlord in the morning to have it fixed. It won't flush, either."

"So why didn't you just turn the valve off?"

_You arrogant son of a bitch. Why do you think I dragged you away from your precious sleep?_

"I tried and failed. I was thinking maybe you'd have a better chance."

"Since I'm bigger and stronger? Well, I don't think that's where the problem is. I think it will be found somewhere inside this tank."

"Mulder, I'm telling you, it has to be that hose. I've watched my father fix a toilet before, and the first place to look for a leak is in the water feeding tube. Now why won't you believe me?"

"I need to consider the evidence first." He picked up the lid on top of the tank, and Scully covered her eyes and nose with her hand. Mulder next began to play with the handle and watched the flapper move up and down in conjunction with its chain. "Hmm. The tank's only half filled. Maybe it's not getting enough water."

"And where do you think that problem might be coming from?"

"Scully, please, you asked for my help. I'm doing my best to sort this thing out."

"Argh, and I would've gotten better assistance from a vice grip!" she exclaimed. "Suppose that's all I needed. There wouldn't happen to be any tools around this well furnished apartment, would there?"

"Maybe," he replied haughtily, and she heaved a frustrated sigh.

"Now you remember what happened the last time you tried to handle a plumbing problem by yourself, and I hope you aren't thinking of trying to do that again. I didn't ask you what the problem was, I asked for your help to turn that goddamned valve off. Please try to do that while I go look for a vice grip or some kind of wrench around here." She stormed out of the bathroom and went into the kitchen.

Mulder crouched down and gripped the stainless steel valve. He tried it with one hand and there was no success. "Hmm. Let's see. She was right...this ain't no picnic." He then got onto his knees and tried both hands. "Lefty loosey, righty tighty," he told himself as he strained to get the insistent knob to move. Finally, with no small amount of grunting, he finished his task and stood back up triumphantly. "I'm not quite satisfied with you, yet," he informed the tank and rolled up his sleeves.

He opened the flapper and retrieved a flashlight from his pocket. He stared down the pipe and hunched over the tank. "Aahh...can't see anything." Mulder stooped on top of the toilet seat. "Much better." He began to play with the handle again and unbeknownst to him, his tie wandered into the very pipe he was surveying. Suddenly, one of his knees slipped on the seat, and to grab his balance, he seized hold of the top of the toilet with his other hand. Unfortunately, the hand he had just been flushing with amounted to success. The flap closed and proceeded to start its suction.

"Mulder, all I could find was this crescent piece of crap from China," Scully sulked as she came back into the bathroom and gasped as she saw him being choked to death by of all things, his tie. "Oh no. I'll be right back, Mulder. I think I saw some scissors in my search!" she yelled and ran back into the kitchen.

"That's lovely," he gagged and struggled to pull his tie out of the pipe.

Scully dashed back into the bathroom, and he moved aside so she could work. "If this works, I think I'll frame those," Mulder rasped. She fought with the tie to steady it and commenced to snip. "Scully, this is no time for manners. Just cut the whole damn thing in two!"

"I'm trying, but this isn't as easy as it may look from your end. Now damnit, try to hold it still!" After a few more attempts, she finally cut the tie in two and let go of him. "I see you got the feeding tube valve closed. Thank you. That's all I needed you for. The landlord can take care of the rest tomorrow morning."

"I need a drink," he grumbled and trudged out of her room. Scully gaped at the remnant piece of tie she was holding for a few seconds longer, tossed it into the garbage can, and resumed her prior position in the chair. She snuggled up underneath the blankets, pressed play on her Walkman, and began to snicker. It started as a quiet chuckle, but then it grew to a volume that Mulder could even hear while he was guzzling his second beer from the kitchen. He sauntered back into her room and leaned against the doorjamb.

"Must be some pretty good comedian you're listening to. Who is it, Bill Cosby?" She stopped the tape once more and removed the headphones from her ears, still full of laughter.

"No...Mulder...it's...my autopsy notes," she struggled to stop herself. Finally, Scully composed herself and looked back up at him. He knew why she was laughing but was still in denial.

"Sorry to have bothered you. I ought to start attending your autopsies from now on. You pathologists had me fooled. Working a day job from nine to five, and then it's off to your clubs for your stand-up routines. Here I thought I was partnered to a regular FBI agent." Mulder took a swig from his bottle and turned his back.

"You know how I feel about stand-up comedy, Mulder," she called after him and stood. "Besides, why would I want to lead such a glamorous career in that when I've got all the fame and fortune of the X-Files?"

"What do you do in there, hone your talents and imagine the uproar of applause?"

"Oh yeah. And my audience is so sprite and vivacious that I get twice the amount of cheering than usual. Come on, Mulder. I work with the dead. All I hear is the droning of my own voice and the effects of the instruments I work with."

"Occasionally, you do get wonderful assistants, don't you?"

"Seldom is a better fitting description. But since you've offered, I would gladly receive you." He waived her off with a shake of his hand and walked over to her. "I'm sorry I wounded your manly pride by laughing at you--it's just that nobody else in the world would get his tie stuck in a toilet tank, of all places, and have his life saved by a pair of scissors wielded by his female partner."

"I'll get over it, Scully. I'll make you a deal. It's gotta be a good one, hmm..." Mulder took her by the hand and sat her down onto the bed. He placed the bottle onto the floor and brought her hand up to his lips. "Every time we get into a shitty situation and need to laugh, you say the words "From China". You know how you were complaining about the only useful tool you found being made in China, right? I'll know what you mean by that expression, and we'll forget our troubles."

"Well, what's the other half?"

"Hmm?" She reclaimed her hand and tightened her robe.

"There are always two halves to a deal. What's your half?"

"Oh. I've had it going on for two years now. But there was never any use for it verbally lest I wanted to keep a full set of teeth."

"You can tell me. I won't hurt your teeth."

"Girl Scout's honor?"

"I wasn't a girl scout, so that doesn't count."

"On a good Catholic girl's honor?"

"Watch it, Mulder."

"Threedog Night."

"What?"

"That's my half. I'd ask you to start singing the tune again but I don't want to anger Mother Nature."

"Mulder, hand me that bottle."

"Uh-uhn. I don't trust an angry woman with sharp objects or blunt instruments."

"If I wanted to kill you Mulder, do you think I'd leave such a mess afterwards?" she asked him with such a morbid tone that made him shift away from her and handed her the bottle. He hesitated before letting go too quickly, and it wasn't until she raised the drink up to her lips to drink that he let out an audible breath of relief. "Had you big time again."

"Prankster. And I could tell you were joking all along. I was just making _you_ believe."

"Yeah, right. Look, I'm gonna need to go visit the lab at the office tomorrow, so can you stay here and wait for the landlord or plumber to come fix that feeding tube?"

"Talk about role reversal. When did I suddenly fit into the role of the homemaker?"

_Well, the apron you wore while we were dishwashing was quite appealing._

He saw her trying desperately to disguise another smile from forming at the corners of her mouth and shook his head. "Forget it. Don't answer that. Instead, will you answer a personal question for me since I answered one for you?"

_Thanks for asking this time. I warn you if you're going to inquire about Daniel, the subject is closed until further notice._

"I suppose," was all she said in reply.

"Did you ever pull a prank on somebody? I don't mean something like just putting a whoopee cushion under the librarian's seat, although some time ago, that used to be quite a dangerous task."

"Of course. Charles and I used to steal my father's pipe tobacco and replace it with dirty wood shavings."

"I'm not talking about an altruistic trick, Scully. I mean a really, nasty, good one that had someone crying over it for days--or at least a few hours."

"Let me think. I'm sure I haven't done anything that vicious to make a man weep in _years_."

"Why just a man?"

"Well let's face it, Mulder, how many chills would I send down your spine if I told you that I made another woman cry?" He considered her point and agreed. Scully arose and carried the empty beverage container into the kitchen. She was shocked to find not only that he had followed her but was also standing right behind her.

"Mulder, are you going to follow me everywhere I go?"

"You're keeping me in suspense. Come on, Scully, give."

"Oh, brother. Okay, I have one. Bill had just come home from his graduation at the Naval Academy, and the first thing Dad went out and did was to buy him a Cadillac convertible. Mind you, it wasn't brand new--it was from the '60s--maybe a '65. Yeah, I think it was a '65."

"Was it pink?"

"No, I think it was champagne. Dad kept on raving on about how wonderful it was that Bill was carrying on the Scully tradition, and I got so sick about hearing all his praise. Mind you, Bill didn't stop him. In fact he-"

"How old were you?"

"Huh?"

"How old were you?"

"Um...seventeen, I think. Bill polished that thing day and night. Dad even let him keep in in the garage all the time. He worshiped that car so much that he wouldn't let anyone ride in it. I remember bringing home one of my boyfriends just before a date or something. He ran his fingers over the hood once, and Bill practically bit his head off for touching his car."

"One of your boyfriends? Just how many beaus did you have dangling on a string, Scully?"

"Oh, I had a few wrapped around my finger in high school, just like any another girl, Mulder."

"Just give me the grand total."

"Honestly, I can't remember...-"

"All right, which one do you remember best? Which one_ really _melted your butter?"

"Mulder, just how many times are you going to interrupt me?"

"I was just trying to identify with you."

"Most audiences do that with eye contact."

"That's easily remedied." Before she could stop him, his arms wrapped around her waist and spun her around. His hazel eyes seared dangerously into hers, and he removed his arms before she could protest. "So what happened to this 1965 Cadillac Eldorado?"

"One night, I perfected the ultimate destructive concoction--turtle wax and turpentine. Then with the assistance of Marcus, we pushed Bill's beloved convertible outside into the elements and distributed the mixture over the top evenly. By sunrise, it had caked on beautifully. I don't think I've ever heard such a tapestry of obscenities poured forth from a man's mouth since the time Charles backed into the fire hydrant with the family station wagon. Only that was my dad, in that instance."

"Did he disturb the whole neighborhood?"

"My dad? Nah. Everyone that lived in our neighborhood had a relative in the Navy, so creative cursing was a part of normal life."

"I meant your brother. And who's Marcus?"

"The guy I was dating at the time. I thought I told you all about...-oh, no that wasn't you."

"_Another_ guy? Who was it, then?"

"I think it was Eddie Van Blundht."

"You were telling that guy personal information? No wonder you're still getting those letters."

"I think you seem to forget the fact that he looked exactly like you once. Letters, what letters?"

"Oh," he yawned and stretched, "I'll tell you tomorrow morning. They're not important. Night, Scully."

"Good night, Mulder."

The X-Files' Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 14th, 2000, 9:45 a.m.

"I just wanted to interject at this point, Agent Short," Mulder declared, "that I saved the Bureau some money."

"And how did you do that, Agent Mulder? Many of these charges seem extravagant."

"Well, at the beginning, Skinner suggested that we again pose as a married couple. But I put my foot down and said no. That would be too much for the Bureau to have to go out and buy us rings."

"We already have ten different models in stock, Agent Mulder."

"Yeah, but last time, we had to go out and re-size Agent Scully's because it was too big."

"Hmmph. Under your philosophy, a dollar saved equals ten dollars later spent. But go on, Agent Mulder. What happened that evening?"

"We ate dinner in."

"This time, I agree with you."

Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York, New York

April 8th, 2000, 8:52 p.m.

"Mulder, there's something I've been wanting to ask you since yesterday," Scully told him as she reached into the sudsy sink and pulled out a perfectly scrubbed plate. She rinsed it off and handed him the dish.

"Go ahead, Scully, I'm listening." He rubbed it carefully with the towel and set it onto the counter.

"I have a strange feeling that this case isn't just a day old. The Lone Gunmen's tip was your catalyst, right? They just added some fuel onto the dying fire?"

"Well, yeah, they did. It was a big breakthrough--which was why I was so excited about it."

"I could tell. Mulder, that apron is _so_ you. How much would I have to pay you to get you to wear that in our office?" she leered at him with a closed mouth.

"Only the apron?"

"Not exactly what I meant." Scully glanced away from her work to size up the white bib covering him from his hips downward. "Anyhow, you're distracting me again. Just how old is this X-File?"

"About ten years old. There were lots of tabloid reports present and something done on a typewriter. But I couldn't read most of the report--it was blacked out. All I could see was 'Drew and Angela Robinson' and New York, New York. I must admit that I didn't give it a further thought because the file was so sketchy. Even _I_ know when to draw the line, Scully."

"Tabloid articles, huh? Once some of my neighbors found out about my work with the paranormal, I started receiving them anonymously on my doorstep. To this day, I'm not quite sure if they're meant to be a joke or assistance. So I started using them for the disposal of my used coffee grinds."

"You're using the hot sheets for your garbage!"

"I thought you said that you never saw _Men in Black_," Short interrupted Mulder.

"What?"

"Did you not tell that to an assistant director a year and a half ago? He asked you if you'd seen that movie, and you said no." Short arose to get himself another cup of coffee.

"Well, I have to confess that I did. But I only watched it for the purpose of research."

"Did you think that those aliens abducted your sister?"

"Of course not--those were all actors and CGI. After watching it for the second time, I must say that there was only one breed of aliens that I did not find to be credible," Mulder announced and also went for more coffee.

"And that would be?"

"The dog named Frank."

"The dog?" Short repeated in disbelief and sat back down. "Why's that?"

"Well, of all the types of furry creatures that we have out there, why would a dog be considered to be the diplomatic type?" Mulder asked this rhetorically and continued on. "They're the most emotional animals, ergo, the most likely to blow a fuse in the middle of a debate. They would _not_ be good listeners or mediators. They also have the biggest egos--always want to be the center of attention, et cetera."

"If you had it your way, Agent Mulder, which species would do?" Short inquired sardonically.

"Hmm." He stroked his chin pensively and took a sip of his steaming beverage. "If I'd had my druthers, I'd probably say an iguana would be best."

"Interesting. Let's go to the next page," Short's lips smacked as he folded the stapled paper over and his hands resumed their previous position. "What's this I find here? A bottle of wine _and _a bottle of champagne?"

"Uh, well, I had a rather embarrassing incident with the toilet and plumbing. It kind of hurt my...pride. Now don't be so superior and tell me that you've never had one of those before?"

"Of course, Agent Mulder. We've all fought our battles with household appliances."

"So then you needed a drink afterwards, right?"

"Sometimes, yes. But the FBI should not have to pay for your damaged self worth, Mr. Mulder."

"What's done is done, okay? And if they want whatever the numbers are back, I'll be more than happy to dish out the cash."

"Good. I'll see to it that that's done--for these two items anyway."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York, New York

April 9th, 2000, 10:37 p.m.

Mulder shivered as he closed the door behind himself and hugged the brown bag close to his chest. Much to his delight, Scully had discovered where the fireplace matches had been hiding and a small fire was crackling in the fireplace. Although he would never accuse her of it verbally, he strongly suspected that she had been squirreling them away just in case he ever did ask for them.

_It must be another one of her independent dispositions._

He thought of another time and place when Scully had tried and failed to start a fire. She poked the embers with the stoker and warmly smiled at him. Mulder quickly pushed those memories aside and set the bag down onto the bar. "I'll just put this in the refrigerator for now to keep it cold," he unsheathed a pair of bottles and shuffled behind the bar with the champagne.

"You're not planning on drinking_ that _much tonight, are you, Mulder? Honestly, it wasn't that bad. I've seen my father in much more embarrassing-"

"Did he do it in front of anyone else?"

"Well..." Scully paused to consider this and leaned the stoker against the hearth. "Actually, I guess I didn't see the whole situation. I just usually saw the evidence left over. But I heard the battle loud and clear."

"I thought so. Besides, I'm still freezing from my walk to the liquor store. Red wine warms you up."

"Oh, Mulder, you didn't wear that tie to the..." He had his back turned to her as he sloughed off his trench coat onto the bar. She approached it, and he spun around as he heard her. "Good grief, you did." Scully sighed, kneeled on a stool, and signaled him to lean over the counter. She undid the remainder of his poor, ratty, tie and tossed it to the floor.

Jimmny Crickets, she was wearing another button down cardigan to expose her V-line. Mulder did try his best _not_ to get another eyeful as she stripped him of his tie.

"That's one beautiful fire you have going, Scully." He pulled out two wine glasses and handed them to her as he carried the Shiraz over to coffee table in front of the sofa.

"Yeah. Who knew I could actually start one and keep it working?" she muttered as she watched him uncork the wine.

_You've had my pilot lit for years._

"Uh, Scully, do you mind if I put some music on? I'm not trying to force you into an uncomfortable situation, I just thought it might break up a little tension."

"You can never tolerate silence for more than two minutes, can you, Mulder?" she chortled once through her nose and shook her head. "It's fine. But not too loud, okay?"

He hurriedly shoved the open bottle into her hands and ran excitedly to the stereo system. _Oh dear. There are way too many buttons here. Don't be an idiot, don't be an idiot, don't be an idiot._

By the time he figured out the system and had it playing softly, Scully had already finished pouring the first two glasses of wine. "I like this song," she declared and waited until he sat down next to her to give him his glass.

"I think it's Motown. But I'm not sure-"

"Pride and Joy by Marvin Gaye. My mom used to sing it to us to make us fall asleep."

"That's nice. I think you got the same vocal talents from her."

She threw him a dirty look for a moment and motioned to his legs. "There's plenty of room for you to stretch out, Mulder. Go on."

"Are you sure? I just didn't want you to think I was being unprofessional."

"Mulder, do you know how many times we've crossed that supposed line?" He shrugged and flung his legs onto the couch. She gulped down some wine, pushed one of his legs aside, and sneaked in between the open area. Just as he was about to cry out in surprise, she seized his free hand and wrapped it around her waist.

"Scully, I-"

"Mulder, it was your idea to turn on the music, was it not?"

"Yes."

"Let's just listen and appreciate it for a little while, okay?" She leaned backwards until she met his chest.

Oh for years, he had longed to do this. Was he dreaming? _If only I had another hand would I try and pinch myself._

He silently reflected upon Rhinehart's advice and became a little bit more positive on his outlook. Since Scully was taking it this far, he could live with this pace. Holding her was a rare occasion and even more seldom since it was usually on her terms. So he treasured these few moments.

After the song ended and another began, Scully tipped her glass back to finish her first serving and sat up straight to pour herself some more. "Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"What's the matter? You're so quiet."

"You wanted to listen to the song, right?"

"It's over now. Here." She refilled his vessel even though he hadn't totally drained it yet, and she again surprised him by returning to her previous position. "What were you thinking about during the song?"

_I hope you don't want an honest answer to that._

She sensed his silence as a pressure point and covered his hand around her waist with her own.

_Please, say something Scully, or else those thoughts will continue in stronger force. All right. Fine. I'll tell you something but it was not was I was thinking about at all._

"Just...when Samantha and I were kids, my mother did sing to us. But once Samantha was gone," he shook his head and took a large swig of wine, "she stopped. I think not only did I lose my sister that day, but my mother, too. She was never the same."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mulder, I didn't mean to drudge up the past."

"No, it's okay. Diana used to sing to me, too--maybe that's another reason why I hung onto her so long."

"Did she have a good voice?" Mulder hesitated before giving a response and her grip tightened around their hands. "Did she have a good voice, Mulder?"

"Well, she wasn't Celine Dion, but yes, she did have a pleasant voice."

"Did she sing you to sleep?"

_Scully, I really don't want to get into this now. _ But a part of him told him to keep going, that this was a step in the right direction; so he continued.

"Sometimes."

"Did you sleep at her place or yours? Or wait a minute. You didn't have a bedroom then."

"No, no, I did. It was after Diana that I just decided to give away the bed and use the room for storage."

"Well?"

"I guess it depended on where we were. If it was a night home from the office, it was mine. If it was a night out, it was hers."

"So she never officially 'lived' in your apartment?"

"For a couple of months, sure, she did. But we decided that it was too tight for living quarters. She needed her space, and I needed mine. So we just continued on."

"If I might ask, what caused you two to break up?" Mulder quaffed the last of his wine and set the glass behind him so Scully could not reach it.

"Mmm...well...her assignment to Europe caused a bit of a drift. And...we were growing apart slowly. I could feel it, and she could, too. So, I guess that's why some feelings were a bit mixed when she got back two years ago. We never officially did 'break up'. There were some mutual feelings of 'it's over because you're far away' and 'we need a little off time'. Sorry things were so confusing for you, Scully. I mean, I wanted it to be over, but..."

Now that he had another free hand, he slipped the other hand around her other side.

"No, I understand, Mulder. Remember I just went through a similar circumstance?"

"I do." _And I'm glad you chose me over him, I think._

"Oh crap," Mulder mumbled.

"Something wrong, Agent Mulder?" Short looked up from the expense list and eyed him.

"Uh, nothing, I just kind of told you a few details...that I probably shouldn't have."

"Don't worry, Mulder. I'm just here to go over how you used the FBI credit card, not your inappropriate advances toward your partner or vice versa. That's up to the OPC."

"You're not going to tell them anything, are you?"

"I hope you're not threatening me, Agent Mulder. If you are, I most certainly _will_ tell them."

"No, I was just asking."

"Then we'll pick up the next morning, regardless of what happened in the night. Continue, please."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Central Park, New York , New York

April 9th, 2000, 8:25 a.m.

Mulder needed to clear his mind, so he jogged down to the subway station and took the train. On his way out, he began to walk briskly again. Then when he was free and clear of the traffic of the sidewalk, he broke into a free sprint.

Well, actually, he needed to think things over. Ever since the night before, things had changed again radically for him and Scully, He had opened up about his previously ambiguous relationship with Diana, and she had slept in his arms--all night. They did finish the bottle of wine, but Scully had nodded off after her final glass, and he was too tired to push her away to get the champagne. Besides, it felt nice to wake up that way--even if the other person was still asleep.

_Gee, I hope she doesn't get a hangover._

Now that he had finally learned the truth about his sister's abduction and since his mother's death, there was only one real reason why he came into work every day. Scully. And he was afraid that if he did actually give up the X-Files and perhaps do something else in the FBI, he'd never see her. But were they at that point where he could actually see her outside of work? It'd be so good to take her to see a movie or maybe to a concert at Lincoln Center. It dawned on him that he didn't even know what kind of music she liked.

She never ever had any playing when she did autopsies--he'd known several pathologists that worked to either the tunes of Bach or Aerosmith. Lord, by the time Aerosmith was hugely popular, he was in high school already. I_'m just glad my bones aren't cracking in their joints yet._

Things were moving quickly but yet he wished for more. No, scratch that; his mind was just fine. It was another region of his body that was wanting things to move along faster than Scully would probably allow. _She's got to want this, too--her innuendoes have been getting worse than mine these days._

"Hey, aren't you Randy Andy Muldron?" a female voice called out to Mulder from behind. He stopped dead in his tracks and spun around.

"That'd be me. Who wants to know?" he gave her a roguish smile, but it disappeared as soon as her male counterpart reached her side. Mulder already knew that these were the aliens, but he decided to be courteous. They had been living on earth for at least ten years; they probably had other customs but blended into this culture inconspicuously. Well--almost inconspicuously--except for the fact that they chose to look like two well-known actors.

"I'm Angela, and this is Drew. We read all about you in Bon Appetite, and this is an honor," Angela held out her hand.

"No, I'm stunned and uh...flattered that anyone actually heard of me before. And, to meet you two is--something I've been dreaming of for years. Since when did you start dating one another?" Mulder thought the 'celebrity' approach would at first be best. "No pseudonyms are necessary with me," he whispered.

"What do you mean?" Drew wondered.

"I mean that I'm not going to start shouting out that two famous people are talking to me," Mulder replied in a stage whisper.

"Famous peop--oh. Oh, Drew, that's so sweet. And it hasn't happened for a long time. No, no, Randy Andy, you don't understand...we're not who you think we look like. We're married--and we've never acted in movies before. But we do happen to own a restaurant. That's how many people in New York know us," Angela stated proudly.

"Oh--but you look just like...-"

"We know, we know. But just to let you in on a little secret, I don't think Jodie Foster would be dating Richard Gere or any other man," Drew patted Angela on the shoulder.

"Right. So, what do you serve at your restaurant?"

"Food every now and then. Would you like to see it and have a cup of coffee while you're there?"

"Uh, well, I've been working with another critic for the past couple of months very closely-"

"Valerie Scullet, right? Don't worry, we won't ask for a review or anything. She can come later if she wants. And we don't open up until about eleven," Angela offered. "We could get to know each other. Have you had breakfast yet?"

"Well, no, actually. I just got up and started running because I needed to think," Mulder answered.

"Ugh. I need coffee before I can even move in the mornings," Drew commented. "Come on, Randy Andy. We've got the best Jamaican blend you can find--straight from Montego Bay."

"Well, okay. But I need to at least tell her where I am so she doesn't worry."

"Why don't you wait until you've had a little caffeine? There's no need to hurry," Angela grinned.

Mulder began to ponder the situation; on the one hand, he was starving and was in no mood to see Scully as she would just be waking up. On the other hand, he needed her rational mind to keep him steady in uncertain scenarios--this definitely would qualify as a confusing situation--but he did not want to refuse such a kind offer. And to do so would probably be considered rude in the world of a food critic. _Ah, I'll wait to call her after my first cup of coffee._

Narcissus' Ochroid Patella, New York, New York

April 9th, 2000, 9:15 a.m.

"So you were actually planning on coming to visit us?" Angela asked Mulder as she poured their cups full of another round of coffee.

"Yes, we were thinking about doing it either today or tomorrow afternoon," Mulder said and inserted another huge piece of the bagel into his mouth.

"Well, where have you been recently?" Drew inquired.

"To name a few places, we've been to Acapella, Norma's Breakfast, and Cafe Europa."

"Oh yes, we know Edward Longhard. And who's the manager at Norma's--a Paul Rhinehart?" Mulder nodded at Angela. "Very nice men. Longhard used to manage our books, but then we caught him stealing from us. Didn't we, Drew?"

"Mmhmm. He was a good man, but sneaky as hell. Did he strike you as being flaky, Randy Andy?"

"He didn't strike me as having a real personality, so, yeah, I suppose so. You know a lot of people in the food world here, don't you?"

"Well, we have to know how to measure up to the competition," Angela shrugged.

"They say you're doing very well. You've been operating for how long, now, ten years?" Mulder interrogated Drew and spread some more cream cheese onto the other half of his bagel.

"Uh, yeah, it's been that long. September will be our ten years' anniversary, as a matter of fact. We're going to take a cruise to Alaska. Angela's been dying to see some moose."

"Just me, honey? You've been rather curious about them yourself."

"I've heard that the bald eagles live there, too. And what about hiking and/or camping? Alaska can get kind of cold at night...could make for some comfy ways to stay warm," Mulder remarked and suddenly felt embarrassed as his mind conjured up a few interesting pictures.

"I don't do camping," Angela shook her head and took another sip of her coffee. "But I love to go hiking. I'm weird, aren't I?"

"Honey, it'd probably be best not to ask questions we already know the answers to--especially insulting ones," Drew reminded her.

"So how'd you two meet?" Mulder tried to steer himself away from a domestic dispute. He had no idea what aliens did during one, but he figured out that the end result would probably not be just hurt feelings. _They can be such a violent species._

"Of all the odd places, we met as a couple of extras on a film set," Drew told him. "It was an independent film, not a blockbuster. You probably wouldn't have heard of it."

"Try me. I watch a lot of weird stuff," Mulder quipped. _Why did I just admit that in public?_

"Would you like anything else? I have some more of that omelet left over in the skillet," Angela interjected as she arose with her own plate.

"Skillet," Mulder mumbled to himself. "No thanks, Angela. Ah, would you two excuse me for a few minutes, please? I have to make a phone call to Valerie." He got up, too, and headed for the men's room with his cell phone in hand. "Come on, pick up. Pick up your damn...wait a minute. It's only nine thirty. Maybe she's still at the apartment." He hung up and tried dialing another number.

"Scullet."

"Hey, Scullet, it's me, Muldron."

"Mulder...uh, Muldron, where the hell have you been! You've had me worried for the last hour and a half! No notes, no messages on my cell, who do you think you are? You're my partner for Christ's sake!"

He let her finish her tirade patiently but pulled the phone closer to his ear once she finished.

"I apologize, Scully, er...Scullet. I went out for a run because I needed to think this morning. And actually, I ended up in Central Park. Also, I met Drew and Angela while I was running. I'm at their restaurant right now."

"Muldron, don't you remember what we agreed upon? Critiquing by yourself is _not_ a good idea."

"I'm not doing that. They just invited me in for a cup of coffee--and that suddenly turned into breakfast. Hey, would you like to join me?"

"I already ate breakfast and have had three cups of coffee."

"Okay, how about gracing me with your company? Er, uh, gracing us?"

"Not a chance, Muldron. I'm typing up your illegible scrawl right now to send in a preliminary report to Skinner. I also have to get back to the regional office for some more consultation with the forensic analyst concerning this strange compound he found. And what's this addendum about my favorite meal being breakfast all about?"

"Uh--you could actually read that?"

"Obviously."

"I've...I've got to go. But can we meet up this afternoon back at the apartment to plan our next move?"

"That sounds fine. What time?"

_Always back to business first, aren't we, Scully?_

"How's one sound? I'll bring back some takeout."

"As long as it's not Chinese, that'll be fine."

"Wait a second, what's wrong with Chinese?"

"Don't you have somewhere to be, Muldron?" With that, she ended the call and left him standing in front of the sinks dumbfounded. He trudged confusedly out of the bathroom and plopped himself back down in the booth across from Drew.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to understand women," he grumbled.

"Is she coming?" Angela inquired and slid her plate back onto the table. Drew gladly began to pick at one side of the omelet, and she joined him.

"Not this morning. Maybe I'll be able to talk her into a rendezvous for us tonight. Do you think you'll be too busy for us to come?"

"There's no telling. People usually phone in reservations the day of, not the day before, as you well know, Randy Andy. Lunch will be pretty hectic since it's a Wednesday; but dinner should not be a problem. What do you think, Drew?"

"I think they should come anytime they want." The man bent closer to her and whispered in a language Mulder thought sounded like a blend of French and Dutch.

"Great--please don't make it a big ordeal on our account. Scullet loves to criticize just as much as I but isn't much for the 'royal treatment', if you catch my drift," Mulder hinted and slipped his cell phone back into his pants' pocket. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I think I'd better get back to the apartment and change into some decent work clothes for the day. Thanks for the breakfast."

He arose but then immediately lurched forward involuntarily and gripped the table to try to keep his equilibrium. "What the...-" Unfortunately, he completely lost it and passed out headfirst into Drew's unfinished bowl of oatmeal.

Drew exchanged a mischievous leer with Angela. "Works like a charm every time."

"Not everyone passes out, darling," she jibed.

"Tsk, I know. Where can we stash him for now?"

"And that's all you can recall?" Short probed Mulder as he closed the list.

"Well, besides the part where I found Scully covered from head to toe in goo after I awoke...yeah."

"Amusing story, Agent Mulder. Tell me, should your career end earlier than expected, have you ever thought about becoming a narrator for public broadcasting? You'd definitely have a promising future built up for you there."

"Are you threatening _me_ now?"

"Nope. You just really know how to tell a good story." Short stood and set his half full mug of coffee directly in front of Mulder's nameplate.

"So what does this mean? Are they shutting us down again?"

"I'm not sure of that yet, Agent Mulder. But I'll be back next week to check on you." He packed up his few belongings and shut the door on his way out.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York, New York

April 9th, 2000, 8:26 a.m.

Scully moaned and rolled across the bed to stare at the digital alarm clock. Damn. She had seriously slept late this morning. Okay, perhaps it was not so 'late' now that she thought about it. After the hilarious toilet episode last night, she had stayed up for another hour as penance to finish listening to her autopsy notes. She did make a few observations on her notepad in shorthand, but it had been very difficult for her to focus.

To be blunt, she had been finding it more and more arduous for the past couple of cases to keep her mind only on the case. As much as she tried to fight it, she did have feelings for Mulder that went way past the boundary of partnership or even friendship. They had been sharing a great deal more of personal information recently, too. Not that she minded it--she found the revelations to be an outlet for her recent tension. God knows that there was a tremendous amount built up in her no thanks to their recurrently stressful situations.

She willed herself out of bed reluctantly and tied a robe around herself. There was no smell of coffee coming from the kitchen, so she assumed Mulder was still asleep. Scully opened a cupboard and began to reach for the coffee, but reconsidered the thought and took a few tea bags instead. She had been trying to switch herself over to tea instead since it was much healthier for the body than coffee. Tea had nowhere near the appeal of a freshly brewed pot of java to her; yet she made the sacrifice. A thought just occurred to her: would Mulder be so willing to make such a sacrifice? He drank the stuff like there was no tomorrow. A normal day at the office would equal two ten cup pots of coffee, and when they were on assignment, a mug of coffee was like an extra appendage extruding from his palm.

She could only imagine what his days were like when he worked as a profiler. As she filled up the kettle with water and set it back onto the burner, she put only one tea bag in the pair of mugs resting on the island. Scully journeyed down the short hallway and knocked twice on Mulder's door. "Mulder, are you up?"

When there was no answer, she opened it up and found an empty bed. There were no noises coming from the bathroom, and she almost tripped over a pair of his dress shoes on the way back to the kitchen. The remains of his tie were hanging out halfway in a wastebasket, and the rest of his clothes from yesterday lay in several pools strewn about the floor. She then sighed in relief when she saw his wallet, badge, and gun still resting on the bedstand nearby. He most likely went for a run--at least he had the common sense to take his cell phone with him.

As Scully returned to the kitchen, the kettle was whistling loudly and she relieved it from its burner to fill up just one mug. Good. She didn't need him around anyway right now--his presence would only deter her from ironing out the details of their field report to Skinner. But it'd be nice if she could speak with him briefly about how to decipher the hieroglyphs he'd made all over the _Times_ yesterday. Where was that newspaper anyhow?

Thankfully, he'd left it predictably on the coffee table last night. He probably wanted to make some more notes to himself as he watched the basketball game. Although he was quite flippant about their undercover assignment outwardly, Mulder's fervent notes all over the paper showed the opposite.

She had to admit to herself that even though the idea that aliens would own a restaurant on Earth, let alone blend into the human culture flawlessly, seemed like a fabricated stream of nonsense, she did not mind how peacefully paced this investigation was. It was almost sluggish in comparison with most of their previous alien encounters. But damnit, sometimes they needed a rest. Well, this wasn't precisely a rest...the motion centered more around inquiries and research rather than running and shooting. She promised herself that should nothing come out of this X-File to accept the result with dignity and grace. Perhaps that's what Mulder was alluding to two days ago. She had been quite verbose with him about how it was becoming once too often that there was no actual ending or conclusion to their cases. But she attributed that to pressure from Skinner and the scientist in her. Part of her wanted to believe in some of the things they had discovered.

Yet Scully pondered if it was just because she wanted to please Mulder--like she had wanted to please her father once. Was her heart truly into looking for the truth or just seeking for his approval?

Scully removed the tea bag and booted up the laptop that was resting on the kitchen table. She tossed the newspaper beside it and retreated back to her bedroom for her own notepad and Walkman. As she commenced to type, she stopped for a moment to think how nice it was to hear silence. She shoved the thought away, sipped some tea, and leaned her notepad against the screen.

Forty-five minutes later...

"What the hell is this jumble of words supposed to mean? I swear, Mulder, interpreting your handwriting is no more difficult than it is for a Bible scholar to translate the Dead Sea Scrolls!" Scully yelled to no one and threw down the newspaper in exasperation. "I think I need to eat something before I start breaking things," she told herself and got up from her chair.

The mug was bone dry of tea, too, so the kettle was turned on again after she started to rummage through the cabinets. Plain oatmeal was her best option, unfortunately. Well, maybe some cut up apples, brown sugar, and cinnamon would do the trick.

By the time she had the apple cut, the kettle was again crying for attention, and she measured out the appropriate amounts into both her mug and bowl. Scully had just finished stirring in her ingredients when the apartment phone rang. She was about to answer it but thought better. No one besides Skinner knew that they were here, and she hadn't made the call to the landlord to complain about the toilet yet. She and Mulder had both agreed to stick to cell phone calls for security's sake based upon previous experiences with bugged land-lines.

_Oh, what the hell--might even be a wrong number_. "Scullet," she answered and thanked God that it was a cordless phone as she attended the oatmeal.

"Scullet, it's me."

"Glad you called--I was beginning to wonder if you ran all the way to Queens from here."

"How'd you know?"

"You must have left a lot earlier than I thought."

"I mean, how'd you know I went for a run?"

"Well, I didn't hear the shower going or any commotion through the bathroom, you left your weapon and wallet on your nightstand, plus there was no coffee made. Therefore, I came to the most logical and simple conclusion. You should try it sometime over a leaping and bounding guess. It works most of the time."

"It just doesn't steal my wool, dear Scullet, you should know that by now." Scully snorted softly with her mouth full and sat down at the table to eat. "Have you had your coffee yet?"

"No, I had tea this morning, as a matter of fact. I'm on my second mug now. Why?"

"I was going to ask you to join us down at the restaurant."

"Us?"

"Yeah. I happened to run into Drew and Angela on the trail in Central Park, and I'm actually eating breakfast there right now with them. Why don't you come down and join us?"

"I would, Mulder, except for the fact that I'm consuming a bowl of oatmeal right this very moment. And," she paused to swallow her mouthful, " I have to call the landlord to report the leak. Unless you already called him earlier this morning."

"Uh, no, I kind of forgot. Must be because I didn't have my caffeine first."

"Mulder, remember how I asked you last night to...--tsk, I have to go to the lab today. I promised the technician that I'd come in and help him. Are you going to be much longer?"

"Well, I was thinking about getting a paper in a little while..."

"Can you make it as soon as possible and get back? You can read it while you're here waiting on the plumber or landlord or whoever's coming to repair this damn thing."

"All right. I'll come back soon. By the way, Drew and Angela are quite lovely aliens. You'd never know it by the look of them, though. They've managed to adapt to the New York culture perfectly and have invited us back there this evening should we want to do some critiquing."

"Since you're there, is there any way for you to sneak into their galley and check for anything suspicious?"

"I don't think so since I don't have you here for a distraction. I'm talking to you right now in their bathroom, which is impeccably spotless, by the way."

"Well, see if you can finagle anything else out of them. I've got to call Skinner before I leave."

"Aha, I knew it! How far back do these secret long distance 'progress reports' go?"

"Excuse me?"

"Maybe there was some truth in that web of fiction spun up by our boss that we viewed on the silver screen, Scullet. How often have you been exchanging some stimulating conversations?"

She stifled a very large groan and rolled her eyes.

"We've managed to keep them down to once a week, if you must pry. But if you really want to know who's currently as you put it last night 'melting my butter' intellectually, you might want to check with a certain walnut-haired, hazel eyed companion of mine. Now come back home this instant before I lose my temper with him!" With that, she pressed the talk button and finished her breakfast.

Scully felt better after she had showered and dressed, but she thought that Mulder would be back by that time. The man sometimes was too elusive. She snatched her cell phone off of her own bedstand.

"Yes, Agent Scully, I _do_ remember that progress report. You need not repeat the information to me. I'll just review to clarify any gray areas," Skinner closed the manila folder and rested his folded hands on top of it. "At that particular time, you said you had found traces of trimethoxy...uh, help me out here, Agent..."

"Mescaline trimethoxy phenethylamine," she responded and nonchalantly switched crossed legs.

"Yeah, that was it. And you were going to go do some further research on it. I remember that you also were going to fax me your preliminary field notes. I still haven't received those notes, by the way." He eyed her as she leveled both legs to the ground and primly straightened her skirt. "How much time did you spend back at the regional office's lab?"

"No more than three hours, I would imagine, because the technician wanted to break for lunch...and probably for some relief for his brain."

"Relief?"

"Yes, sir, relief. I don't know if you've ever spent any significant amount of time in a research lab, but, once you've exhausted all medical and scientific resources currently known to man for a new organic compound, it can be quite frustrating. But," she added, " it can be quite a rousing experience at the same time."

"What kind of effect does this drug have on humans? I understand that you and Agent Mulder chalk up that lethal accident last week to the drug found in their systems, right?"

"The details have yet to be sorted, but, yes, I would say that's correct. The effects are as follows: fits of nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, convulsions, and loss of balance. I would say with the proper dose, the drug could definitely be fatal. But it looks like in our case, the two victims suffered the side effect of loss of balance."

"Hmm. What made you go over to the restaurant?"

"I could not reach Agent Mulder on his cell phone _or_ at the apartment. I knew something was not right because we had discussed why his expeditious return to the flat was much needed that morning. So since I had the transportation, I made my way down to the place."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Narcissus' Ochroid Patella, New York, New York

April 9th, 2000, 2:14 p.m.

"Just one for lunch, ma'am?" a juvenile male that could not have been more than twelve asked Scully as she strode inside rapidly. The restaurant looked extremely busy, even though it was the tail end of the business lunch hour.

"I need to speak with the owners, please," Scully answered tersely.

"Um, is there a problem, ma'am?" Ma'am? Did she really look that old?

"Yes, and I need to speak to either Drew or Angela, now. This doesn't concern you." She raised the tone of her voice accidentally, and Angela heard her from ten feet away. Angela finished serving her customers and headed towards the entrance for Scully.

"Valerie, how nice to see you here. I thought you weren't going to be here until this evening," Angela greeted her with a winning beam and reached for Scully's hand.

"I wasn't, but my colleague hasn't been communicating with me, and I need to locate him so that I know he's okay. Is he still here?"

"Oh, heavens no." Angela led her away from the front to make way for other customers waiting behind her, sat down at a table for two, and motioned for Scully to do the same.

"Um, I can't stay. I have another critique to do in half an hour with Muldron, which is why I'm trying to retrace his steps and find him."

"You might want to sit down anyway." She grabbed Scully's hand and forced her into the seat just as a hurried waiter nearly bulldozed her over. "You're going to get run over if you don't."

"Good grief, this place is busy for a Wednesday afternoon," Scully marveled as she swept her eyes around the room.

"I know. White collared workers seem to take their time for lunch in the middle of the week here in New York. We can't just shove them off back to the office hungry and upset. So while the pace of the service around here is fast, we encourage our customers to take their time and enjoy their midday break."

"When did he leave?" Scully was anxious to find Mulder and show him the results she'd found, but at the same time, she felt oddly comfortable talking to this duplicate of Jodie Foster. Maybe it had been too long since she had carried on a chat with another woman, she decided. All too often, her contact with females only had to do with interrogation.

_It'd be nice to find someone to speak with other than the FBI shrink. But sometimes, even the female agents at the Bureau can be so petty and vicious._

She once attributed that fact that it was because they were jealous of her and Mulder. Jealous of what? There was nothing more going on between them besides...all right...lately, there was something. But if there were any small crude rumors circulating among the water cooler, she made up her mind to quell them immediately before they exploded and wound up being in an interoffice memo to Skinner.

"I'd say quarter after ten or so," Angela's pleasant voice brought Scully back to reality. "He came in for some coffee and then proceeded to scarf down an omelet, a bagel, a plate full of bacon, and two pieces of toast, too. That man can certainly eat."

"He surprises me, too, and I've been working with him for seven years. Sometimes, he'll just pick at his food while writing up an article, but other times, I can't pull him away from the table."

"Oh, where are my manners? How about lunch? Have you eaten?"

Well, now that Angela mentioned it, Scully's hungry stomach reminded her that the last trace of nutrition she'd partaken of was five hours ago.

"I'd like to stay, but, I have a prior engagement."

"But you're already here, and I can tell just how famished you are. Rough morning?"

"Unbelievably so," Scully nodded in accordance. "I'd like to take you up on your offer, but I'm afraid that I simply don't have the time to sit down and moon over a platter of..." Her eyes got the better of her as another speedy waiter rushed by the table with an all too welcoming French baguette layered with various deli condiments and lunch meat.

"Free of charge, Valerie. And you won't have to utter a word about how wonderful it is except for a yummy sound."

"All right," Scully surrendered and leaned more comfortably into the back of her chair. "Where could I find a-" Before she knew it, a waitress dropped a menu by her place and scurried back to the kitchen. "Wow. Prompt service indeed."

"That's what Drew and I pride ourselves on, besides the cuisine. Do you know what you'd like?"

"Um, could I have a couple of minutes to-"

"Say no more. I'll be right back. I knew we were going to get backed up, but, geeze..." Angela jumped out of her seat and hurried past another heavily burdened attendant with the effortless grace of a dancer.

Forty minutes later...

"So that's how we got into the world of food. How about you? How did you meet Randy Andy?" Angela asked Scully, who was now at the very end of a meal that consisted of a delicious tuna salad on a croissant, a three bean salad, and some Perrier mineral water with a lime.

"What did you call him?"

"Randy Andy. That is his nickname, right?"

"Yeah...I just haven't heard it in a long time," Scully quickly covered herself. It didn't seem so bad that the Lone Gunmen had indeed picked out their undercover names now that she learned they had given him a particularly embarrassing nickname. She found that very amusing.

"So obviously, you didn't coin it."

"No, I didn't."

"Come on, open up a little about that mysterious colleague or yours. How'd you get paired up?"

"Well, I was relatively new to the New York area seven years ago, and Muldron ran his office out of a basement apartment at that time. In fact, he was in the very same building as mine, and that's how we met one day. I think I took a wrong turn somewhere, you see, before I moved to New York, I lived in Washington, D.C., and my complex had an incinerator in the basement. So I unknowingly trespassed into his living space with my garbage one evening thinking it was the same there, and I'm afraid I woke him up by stumbling around in the dark. He wound up with pajamas full of eggshells, coffee grinds, and an earful of expired orange juice. It took a while for me to believe that someone would want to live and work in a basement almost as long as it took him to believe that I was truly looking for an incinerator."

"And the two of you hit it off from there? I mean, your working relationship, of course."

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. Uh, we've built up an incredible amount of respect for one another throughout the years, and I think I can say at this point, if we were separated from one another, I don't think either of us would know what to make of ourselves."

"Why, naturally. You're a team. I could tell from meeting you right away that you're very compatible with a man like him."

"You could?" _Am I that transparent?_

"Definitely. Must have been a cakewalk for you two to take the next step."

"Um, I don't quite follow." Scully had a feeling where this conversation was going, and she did not like it.

"It's only logical that if a man and woman work professionally well together, that they'd be good lovers."

"We're not," Scully said instantly and put up her FBI mask before the situation was out of her control.

"You're not good lovers?"

"We're not involved intimately."

"Oh, that's a shame. Very nice man."

"Look, I hate to bother you any more, and thank you very much for your hospitality, but I should really go. If you're just as busy as dinner as you were for lunch, I don't want to be any more of a bother." Scully stood and immediately found it very difficult to keep the room from swirling. She backed into her chair, and the object flew backward to spill onto the ground. "Oh. I don't know what's happened to me."

"Too many long hours spent on your feet?" Angela suggested.

"Maybe. Ooh." Scully suddenly could not tell where the room ended and began. She started to walk around but stumbled into the booth behind her and landed on top of two very befuddled elderly men.

"Say what's the idea, lady?" one of them shouted.

"Have too much to drink, sister?" the other jeered.

Angela came to Scully's rescue and steadied her. Drew noticed the two of them struggling and went over to assist them. "What's going on? Where are you taking me?" Scully demanded.

The aliens spoke a few sentences to one another in their language and began to guide her to the restroom. "Let me go!" she screamed in a louder voice. They stopped heading towards the direction of the bathroom and then headed for the galley as Scully made more noise. "You're messing with the wrong woman!"

As the trio journeyed past the galley's double doors, Scully elbowed herself away from them and drew out her SIG Sauer. "Oh my God!" a cook yelled and everyone started to flee from the kitchen.

"Please use the back entrance! Don't disturb the...-" Drew pointlessly cried. It was no use. The entire restaurant staff ran for the double doors shrieking, "She's got a gun! Somebody call the cops!"

"Customers," Angela finished. The two of them watched helplessly as the restaurant emptied and dozens of people were on their cell phones at once.

"Where's Mulder? I know he's got to be around here somewhere!" She continued to waive her gun around dangerously while the aliens stepped cautiously away.

"Okay, now she's incoherent. Funny that she didn't pass out like Randy Andy," Drew observed.

"Drew, this isn't going to be good attention for our restaurant, having the police here, I mean," Angela announced. "Should we zellup?"

"If we do, they might come back later, and the situation could even get worse. You know how nosy humans get...look at our proof." He signaled to Scully, who was still barking at the top of her lungs and was now running into several appliances.

"Yeah, I agree with that. But we can't keep him here forever. Eventually, he'll start to stink if he dies. That'll draw attention, too."

"I say we go out the back entrance, let the police find these two, and whatever they do with them will be fine by me. Whatever small amount of drama comes out now, we have dealt with quietly before. Then we'll go back to normal business as usual." There was a loud crash and a series of clangs after Scully bumped into an entire shelf of blueberry, strawberry, and chocolate ice cream toppings.

"I do hate the human justice systems, particularly the Americans. They're so slow!" Angela remarked and they left Scully to wander about by herself.

"So that's everything?" Skinner questioned Scully, who had now begun to twiddle her thumbs.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to put this investigation on hold right now for two very simple reasons: one, this alien couple as you describe them, Drew and Angela Robinson, are nowhere to be found. The New York Police Department has been conducting a search for the past seventy-two hours and so far, no luck. And two, we just cannot simply afford to put you back up in that apartment."

"Have there been anymore incidents?"

"Not any more that can't be misconstrued for something else. A few bike and car accidents occurred here and there, but nothing fatal. So unfortunately, the powers that be are screaming for blood, particularly yours and Mulder's...I'd just as soon not hand you up to them on a silver platter."

"How much damage did we do this time?" Skinner timidly pulled out a tabloid report from underneath the expense report and showed her the cover story. "FBI Investigators Terrify New York City Citizens."

"Oh, well, you're not taking_ that_ story seriously, are you?" she wondered.

He withdrew another two forms of media--one was _Cooking Light_ and the other was _Bon Appetit._

"Government USPH Agents Impersonate Well-Known Food Critics From Denver, Colorado" read one.

"Impostors From the Government Pester Well-Established NY Restaurant" read the other.

"We're not from Denver!"

"You should have done your research before going out into the field, Agent Scully. There are two food critics out of Denver, Colorado that go by those very names, and needless to say, they were just a little pissed off that their good names were being tarnished by a couple of sloppy FBI agents. So someone high up above us that's pulling the strings saved your asses on that one by offering them some kind of compensation."

"I...I don't know what to say, sir." She had long stopped her thumb movements, but now she was making full eye contact with the floor.

"Agent Mulder also had to explain this same list of charges to an auditor this morning, Scully. You two are being monitored like two stray animals by some kind of subcommittee in the Senate. So tread lightly, Agent, in these next few weeks to come. They haven't altogether come forward and made a big threat to shut you down yet, but just know that something might be coming up to bite you in the ass like a pit-bull."

"Are we being suspended?"

"That'll be all, Agent Scully." Skinner collected the pile of magazines along with the expense report and dumped them purposefully into the trash.

The X-Files Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

April 14th, 2000, 10:38 a.m.

The sound of the elevator's arrival and her high heels coming down the hallway was like a bad omen to Agent Mulder, who sat with his head cradled in his hands on his desk. On any other day, he might have welcomed it. Hell, he'd even take another round of questioning with Agent Chesty Short if it could keep Scully at bay. He had no such luck. The footsteps came closer.

"Why's the door open?" was the first question to come out of her mouth as she passed through it.

He neglected to answer her intelligibly, and she shrugged as she closed the door. All the noises that came from his mouth were moans until he heard the familiar give of the chair in front of his bureau; he knew Scully had just sit down for a moment's peace. Then her wrath would begin to brew up like a tornado, and before long, a storm was coming.

"Do I smell hazelnut coffee?" she asked him and that caused him to stir from his despair long enough to give a small nod. Scully leaned forward, took the mug that was still impeding his nameplate, and got up to refill it. Never mind the fact that the ceramic had previously been used by a slimy auditor. Never mind the fact that the coffee was now only lukewarm on the hot plate. She still drank from the mug and dumped the coffee pot's leftovers into a nearby sink. He watched her go through the motions of making a fresh pot through the gaps in between his fingers and before he knew it, her hips were about a foot from his face. He wasn't exactly sure why he felt the touch of her fingers rove through his hair, but it wasn't until she set the mug down that he calmed down and faced her.

"Guess neither of us did that well with the expenses audit," he finally remarked.

"Drink some of this, Mulder. You'll feel right as rain in about a minute," she nudged him with her leg and handed him the coffee.

"You know, the first time you ever walked into this office, I was so sure that you only came down here to laugh at me and drain me of all my coffee. Why're you so good to me, Scully?"

"The coffee supply is practically unlimited down here. Why would I want to share an office with a scarce supply upstairs?" When she saw that that brought back his charismatic grin, she stole the mug back and drank some more.

"What do you say to doing some spring cleaning, Scully?"

THE END


End file.
